


It Gets Better

by kaikim



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Enemies to Friends, Forgiveness, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Getting Together, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Multi, Mystery, Secret Identity, The Golden Trio, Tracking Quest, unusual careers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:40:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21922309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaikim/pseuds/kaikim
Summary: As much as the big picture matters, it only comes together if the details are all right.Ten years after The Second Wizarding War there's a mysterious curse plaguing Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Ron, Hermione, and Harry come together again to save the school. When the evidence starts to point towards Draco Malfoy as the only one who can break the curse before it's too late, the three friends agree to convince him to help. But first, they're going to have to find him, and no one has seen or heard from Malfoy in five years.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 41
Kudos: 314





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is far from the first fic I've written but it is the first I've done for Harry Potter! I hope everyone enjoys it. I'm posting about half now, and I intend to post the rest on January 6th, 2020. Thank you for giving it a look!
> 
> Much thanks to [wolfsupremacist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfsupremacist/pseuds/wolfsupremacist) for reading a very early chapter from this and telling me the idea was good enough to follow, and [etonnant67](https://archiveofourown.org/users/etonnant67/pseuds/etonnant67) for the beta reads and reassurance! Thank you to Kris for listening to me ramble when this was just an incoherent kkt message full of dreams.

#

Draco Malfoy felt wrung out. He was emotionally spent, in that way that seems unique to children who have complicated relationships with their parents, particularly after they’ve been ambushed into serious conversations with said parents. Or, parent. Lucius couldn’t converse with anyone but the four walls of his cell.

Draco hadn’t been prepared when Narcissa met him at the floo in his rooms after his day at Edgemoore’s side, and he’d told her as much even as he allowed himself to be guided into his own lounge by her ever-shaking hands. His own lounge. House magic was a strange thing – Lucius hadn’t turned over his position as Master of Malfoy Manor and yet that hardly seemed to matter to the house itself. It had begun moving unused rooms from other wings to connect with Draco’s childhood bedroom, organizing a suite for its Young Master and Soon-to-Be Lord.

“I know, Draco, but ignoring the issue won’t make it go away.” Narcissa had settled onto the low gray couch and stared at her son until he joined her. “Discussing all this is painful...”

“It’s all very painful, but…” Draco’d trailed off, hoping to prompt her into finishing her thought when her pause had gone on too long to be simply dramatic effect.

“Not but, _and_. In addition. I’m not going to negate the pain. Discussing this is painful and waiting until we can’t discuss it anymore would feel worse. I’m dying, Draco, and even if I weren’t the Ministry would never allow me to leave with you when you finally go into exile. They let us stay in the Manor now, as a kindness to you while waiting out your probation, but if I’m still living when you leave I won’t receive that same kindness.”

Draco’d wanted to argue and found he couldn’t. She was right, of course. The sting of tears had welled up and he’d forced them back down before listing sideways to quietly lay his head on her tremoring shoulder. He’d learned so much in so little time: enough healing to survive Voldemort and the Death Eaters’ stay in their home, and then even more after realizing no St. Mungo’s Healer was willing to floo into the Manor after The War and see to the spell damaged Lady of the Manor on house arrest. All the learning in the world wasn’t enough to save his mother.

“I’m not going to leave you for a while yet. You’ve been so good, my son, and you need to focus less on healing that prolongs my life and more on healing that will ease my symptoms as I pass on.”

He hadn’t been able to hold back that sob and had received a squeeze on the arm for it.

“I know what I’m asking is cruel. You know what I’m asking is necessary. And if I am interred before we lose access to the grounds I’ll add to the magic that ties this land to you. You will be Master of the Manor soon, whether your father has the sense to call on blood magic that sustains our wards and pass the title to you or not. The rearranging of the rooms proves it. And a recent burial will be just the extra strength the wards need to remain connected to you no matter where the Ministry sends you.”

She’d talked on and on, about the remaining years of his probation, about watching himself around the Potions Master who allowed him work but wouldn’t pay or apprentice him, about his coming exile if only he’d keep his head down and his nose clean, about the cell in Azkaban next to his father’s awaiting him if he didn’t. She’d spoken of his duty to their house-elves, of his duty to himself and her, of her hopes for him to find a new life wherever he ended up, of her dream that someday he’d be able to return to his nascent home.

She’d continued, breathless, sprinting through topics with urgency because she’d understood that neither of them would have the strength to have this conversation a second time. And when she’d finally run out of things to say she’d kissed the top of Draco’s head, stood with all the grace Druella Black had punished into her in her youth, and glided out of the room with her hands clasped in front of her to hide their tremble, leaving her only son wrung out on his own couch.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours did. In the end, Draco stood up and pulled his shrunken bag out of his cloak pocket. He left the cloak draped over the back of the couch, unshrunk his bag, and removed the supplies he used with Edgemoore. Heartsore as he was, he knew he wasn’t getting any sleep, so he gathered his curse-breaking things and walked into the East wing of the Manor. The Ministry had raided them after the war, claiming any Dark artifact they found.

More fools them, leaving behind all the things that weren’t Dark in their intent or creation but had been used for Dark magic repeatedly over the years. And wasn’t the crux of the problem with the wizarding world? That obsession with dichotomy, with Light versus Dark and Pureblood versus Not and Rich versus Poor. That obsession that allowed misused and mistreated things to fall through the cracks, because someone looked at them once and decided if they were good or bad and set them on a shelf without taking the time to pick them apart.

Draco had a house to clean out and less time than he expected to do it. He’d had his work cut out for him when he thought he had five years to complete it in between his community service and his work with Edgemoore. Now he had to help his mother die and plan her funeral as well. The to-do list was getting longer, and what better time to start on it than right then?


	2. A Bottle of Quintin Black

#

A quick Tempus charm told Hermione that it was 5:45 in the evening. On call as she was work was never really “over” but in fifteen minutes she’d be free to leave her desk and twenty minutes after that she’d be exiting the floos in Hog’s Head Inn to meet her husband and best friend for dinner. Hermione was more than ready to go, tired from running back and forth to meetings all day. Run and sit and talk and take notes and then run again to sit somewhere else and take more notes. Stuffy old Wizengamot members and Ministerial appointees and their assistants and clerks, all yelling and posturing and demanding answers as if they all thought that if they yelled loudly enough and stormed out of rooms fast enough no one would ask them why they didn’t have any answers. 

Why they hadn’t figured out why so many wizarding families were moving their children and businesses out of Wizarding Britain. Why they didn’t know how to convince anyone to stay. Why fewer and fewer children boarded the Hogwarts Express every year, and more and more children ended up visiting Hogwarts on exchange from Beauxbatons. Hermione Granger-Weasley hadn’t clawed her way up the ranks of the Department of Mysteries to play games of international political posturing, but the long-term broad view was that without a populace, Wizarding Britain and all its bureaucracy (both well-known and mysterious) would be useless.

She didn’t have clear answers, but she was always willing to leave her desk and walk into a meeting to tell anyone listening that a corrupt and over-burdened Ministry did nothing to inspire confidence from its citizens. And so she had, all day long, and soon she’d be leaving to see her two favorite men and have a beer with dinner, provided that the team she was managing came back from their assignment soon and didn’t take too long to debrief her. She started gathering her things, unconcerned. It was a simple collaboration between the Unspeakables and the Curse-Breaking Department, thanks to Potions Master and Curse-Breaker Extraordinaire Jonathon Edgemoore. His innovative methods had drawn from potion brewing and charmwork, creating a new process that , by Hermione’s calculations, cut the danger of Curse-Breaking by an average of 60% and the halved average amount of time required to identify and dismantle curses. 

What once was an arduous process that required an Unspeakable’s oversight had become routine, and Hermione was only involved at all because she hadn’t gotten around to convincing anyone to change the by-laws requiring her department’s participation yet. Distracted, she mulled over the idea of arranging for Edgemoore to speak at Hogwarts. A science fair-cum-pep rally of sorts. He was a legend in his field and had given Britain a leg up over the French in cleaning out Dark artifacts. A visit from him would be more than enough to raise Hogwarts profile, she mused; if it could be arranged in the next several weeks or so then it would be one of the last things the kids experienced before leaving for summer holiday. They’d talk it up over break and come September maybe a few more first years might arrive at Platform 9 ¾ than usual.

She took one last look over her desk, wrote a note on her calendar about fire-calling Edgemoore’s office, and straightened the papers in her drawers before shutting and locking them. There was a knock at her door just as she finished, and she stood up to receive the Curse-Breakers and their perfunctory report. She might even be early to the inn.

+

From her spot by the floos Hermione could see Harry and Ron at their usual table with only two still very full steins between them. Usually by the time she arrived they were well into the second round of drinks and ready to order dinner, so she was a bit surprised that neither of them perked up at her early approach. She draped her cloak over her customary chair and bent to kiss Harry on the temple, just above the arm of his glasses. Taking her seat she leaned in to kiss Ron full on the mouth, sat back to steal a long pull of his beer, waved at the young barman to bring her one of the same, and then started in with a furrowed brow.

“So what’s wrong with you two? I haven’t seen either of you look so down or confused in ages.”

“Oh, it’s not me at all; Harry’s the one. He was fine when we met up outside the inn and when we placed our orders at the bar. It was when we were sitting down and I asked how the kids were getting on prepping for their Ancient Runes NEWTS that he got all mopish. He hasn’t deigned to share why yet and I’m just guessing what it might be while I wait him out.”

“Do you think he’s concerned that they aren’t comprehending the more advanced runes they need as fast as they should?”

“Nah, Harry’s an ace at making study guides and he gave them all your old revising and note-taking tips.” Ron nodded his thanks at the barman as he handed off the beer he’d brought to Hermione to avoid being reached over. “That can’t be it.”

“True. And what’s more, he’s a fine teacher. Maybe it’s something that he’s stumped on, a new ancient runic text of some sort?”

“Well he certainly cares about his studies a lot more now that he’s focused in on an area he enjoys but I don’t think he cares so much that he’d get so melancholy for that. He’s always loved a good challenge.”

They speculated and speculated, not letting the man they were discussing get a word in edgewise, until finally he caught a break.

“He’s sitting right here, you know, and would thank you for your persistent concern if you’d like to include him in the conversation.”

+

Harry grinned over the edge of his stein at the twin smiles his friends gave him in return. He knew that the ridiculous back and forth had been more for the benefit of amusing him than any actual deductive reasoning, and he also knew that he only needed to say the word and they’d both be ready to help him confront whatever bothered him. Ron and Hermione, his first line of support and defense, his two oldest friends who’d always been by his side, willing to follow him headlong into any adventure or scheme. And the feeling was more than mutual. The more things stayed the same, the more they seemed to change.

Ron’d grown taller than anyone had expected and the smattering of freckles across his nose were darker than they’d been in youth. His casual clothes implied that he’d spent the day in the basement testing new products instead of at the till of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes greeting his customers. His blue eyes were just as clever as they’d always been, though they were a bit more focused and belied a patience that let him be even cleverer.

Hermione hadn’t gotten any taller after they’d all graduated Hogwarts, but she’d honed that calm determination that seemed to be in development as long as Harry’d known her and now, at age 27 she was focused. The smart twists in the front of her hair fed neatly up into the pineapple puff that sat on the crown of her head. It seemed almost ridiculously antithetical that she was a random cog in the Ministry’s employee machine, but when questioned a simple “I can’t speak to you about that” in response had Harry and Ron carefully quiet on anything that may have made them candidates for Obliviation. Harry knew that he’d changed too, though his adjustments had been intentional.

As soon as the circus of The War had died down, he’d made his way to a Mind Healer, bent on dealing with his attachment issues, his distrust of authority figures, his self-reliance, his temper. A proper diet and care had allowed him to grow past the stunted height of his youth though he’d never be tall, and the weight lifting his Mind Healer had suggested for working out excess energy had left him thick in build and calm in mind. Maybe the fact that he’d skipped it these past few days was why he felt so antsy, and he told his friends as much.

“I just feel like something is going on at Hogwarts. Suddenly all the moving staircases are avoiding the seventh floor, and when I overheard Professor Sinestra asking McGonagall about it the Headmistress only said to focus on getting the student body through NEWTs and then we’d handle any other concerns.”

Hermione frowned at that. “Why are you eavesdropping instead of asking her yourself?”

“Yeah, Harry, you’ve saved that school more than anyone else based on your hunches. And you’re a professor now, not just a too-small student running around the halls in an invisibility cloak. McGonagall respects you; if you said something was up she’d listen.”

“I was eavesdropping because she knows my history with Hogwarts mysteries and won’t tell me about it. She won’t make eye contact with me in the Great Hall, she’s never in her office when I go to visit, she’s rebuffed several of my attempts to talk in the halls. I think there’s not only something going on, but she’s pretty sure of what it is.”

Hermione looked at Ron, one of those secret looks that came from years living with, around, under each other and knew that while she was the usual voice of reason, the level-headed thought they were sharing would have more impact coming from Ron.

“Well, mate, if McGonagall thinks it isn’t something to worry over yet, then…”

Harry’s left pointer finger tapped at the air, the only tell his wandless magic had, and then he lifted his left hand to catch the napkin he’d accioed before swiping the condensation off his glass and the table.

“I know. And as an adult and one of her staff, I agree. But then I get to the Great Hall or I look out by the lake and I see all the first years… Merlin, they’re so small. So young. We were that small and that young.” Harry looked at each of his friends in turn and saw his concerns validated in their expressions. He set the damp napkin down with a quiet slap to drive the point home.

“You know we always saw more, overheard more, figured out more than the professors gave us credit for. And when we convinced ourselves they weren’t doing enough we jumped in head first to try to save our school. Eleven years old and facing trolls and shadowy figures in the Forest and three-headed dogs, running around after curfew with one of the Deathly Hallows _for fun_.

I just… I know now, what I didn’t know then, and that’s that adults sometimes do have a plan. At the moment the plan is to wait. But what if one of the students doesn’t understand that? What if there’s more students like _us_?”

All three adults shuddered.

“I just want whatever it is over and dealt with, before some erstwhile student gathers their most trusted friends around them and goes traipsing off into I don’t even know what kind of danger.”

Harry seemed to grow more and more despondent as he spoke. Ron clapped him on the shoulder in commiseration while Hermione flagged down the barman for another round. She had a feeling they’d be drinking for a while before getting to dinner.

+

Unknown to the three friends, not more than two kilometers away another round of drinks was being poured to aid a discussion of the very same topic. Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt sat in one of the plush chairs in front of Headmistress Minerva McGonagall’s desk, watching his old friend and colleague pour three fingers of an old Firewhiskey for each of them before seating herself in the other plush chair.

“This isn’t an official meeting, Kingsley, because I won’t be making any moves towards a solution until school lets out for summer holidays in another three weeks and the last student is safely aboard the Hogwarts’ Express headed away from here. That said, when I do make an official complaint you and I will both want the response to be immediate so. Here we are.”

“Giving me enough advance warning to get my ducks in a row, then?”

“Indeed.” Minerva sipped her whiskey before setting it aside with a grimace. “I wish this were Quintin Black. Well. Hogwarts is cursed, Minister Shacklebolt.”

Kingsely shot straight up from his slouched seat, whiskey sloshing as he made noises that sounded vaguely like a call for Aurors. Minerva waved a hand at her taller drinking partner with a sigh. “Oh, do sit down. No one particular person cursed the school. It’s from The Battle of Hogwarts. It would seem the reason the Room of Requirement has been missing all these years is because the castle was containing the majority of the spell damage and dark hexes, not the least of which was Fiendfyre apparently, in the room and away from all of us. But the magic is volatile, and it has worn away at the school’s defenses over the past decade until now.”

She dragged her hands through her hair and down over her face, speaking through the muffle of her palms.

“The Room is back again, and just getting close to where the door normally appears feels like walking through a world where everything is backwards and moved slightly to the left. It feels wrong, and after so many years of the castle protecting us it is now time to return the favor.” She looked up to Kingsley’s face as she said the last sentence, hoping to see answers, but he was already looking skyward in thought.

“A curse full of old dark magic… maybe that’s why so many families are moving their students and their lives to other parts of Europe. You know younger witches and wizards with their still developing magical cores are more sensitive to magic not being right. They’re less settled, less grounded. I’ll get the Unspeakables started on figuring out how to approach this and they’ll be ready to go as soon as the school year ends, and you call for us.”

Minerva’s posture didn’t change, but the release of tension was obvious in every line of her body. She nodded her thanks and took another sip of the harsh whiskey. All she had to do was keep the students away from the seventh floor another few weeks- easy enough with final exams; stop her Ancient Runes Professor from becoming overly involved even though he’d long left that adventuring portion of his life behind; and trust Kingsely to figure out a solution. She wasn’t too sure that the increasingly large exodus of wizarding families from Wizarding Britain was because of the curse in the school, but more convenient for her if Kingsely did. As long as he framed it that way maybe the Unspeakables and the Wizengamot might actually have a plan in place by the time summer holidays began.

+

Two weeks later, the Unspeakables had a plan in place. Lead Unspeakable Croaker had convinced Minister Shacklebolt to leave the Wizengamot out of preparations, citing Unspeakable jurisdiction over curses and a desire to avoid too much red tape. If internal politics informed his demands, well. He wouldn’t be the first department head to let that occur. He’d sent a preliminary Curse Breaker team in during the last Quidditch match of the season to see if they could fix the issue (they couldn’t, and they’d nearly been caught by Professor Potter who should’ve been _at the pitch with everyone else_.)

There’d been a team set on the research for undoing curses that mutated and evolved over time, a team set on sniffing under Edgemoore to see if he had any research he’d kept back from the public for profit, a team researching the old ways of curse breaking and spell lifting, a team set on expounding on the uses of Panafairό’s Box. The third team had a breakthrough first though, and so Edgemoore had been brought into the Ministry for a chat with Shacklebolt, Croaker himself, and his right hand – Unspeakable Granger-Weasley.

The meeting had been going well, right up until they’d pressed him on breaking curses on buildings. Unspeakable Granger-Weasley had led him masterfully. Edgemoore’d clearly preened when she’d shown him to the room and introduced him to his audience. They’d plied him with tea, complimented his work, smiled kindly when he obfuscated about the details of how he’d made his discoveries.

“So, Mr. Edgemoore,” the junior Unspeakable smiled and set her tea aside. “We at the Ministry do appreciate the ease of your Panafairό’s Box. It’s made the jobs of Aurors and Curse Breakers and Unspeakables so much easier.”

“It is my pleasure to be able to support my government and nation, especially with the generous contract the Ministry has afforded me.” Edgemoore grinned in return, greasy and slimy. “That contract is, of course, up for renegotiation next month and the cost of raw goods has been going up. I assume we’re here to get a jump on pricing, perhaps?”

“No. Rather, we’re here to discuss using the properties of the Panafairό Box without using the box at all.”

“I beg your pardon?” He sat back, confusion written across his brow.

Croaker laughed on the inside; the fool had been so focused on a potential profit he was having trouble following the conversation. Or his acting was just that good. No matter. His own team was better.

“We want to discuss the use of the spells, potions, and arithmancy behind the Panafairό Box to remove curses and malintent from larger areas, such as buildings or specific rooms.”

“Ah. Well. That’s impossible. The arithmancy leads to the construction of the box and the makeup of the potions, and the equations are specifically for the wood or stone the box is made from. You can’t just cast on… on… _air_.”

Unspeakable Granger-Weasley’s smile was all teeth, and vicious in the flickering light of the wall sconces. Croaker minutely nodded his approval; she must have set the charmed overhead sun lights to dim on some unseen cue. He leaned forward to watch his charge work and noticed Minister Shacklebolt lean back in his seat out of the corner of his eye. She truly was intimidating. A wonderful employee.

“Oh, but you can, can’t you Mr. Edgemoore? We have your notes. We’ve seen the tracker log detailing the progress until the process was successful.” And then the notes were on the table where all four could see but only Edgemoore was looking at them. The Ministry employees watched the color drain from his face.

“Come now,” Shacklebolt began, much to Croaker’s annoyance. “We understand you’re a businessman. If this were to get out everyone would cast once over their entire home rather than buy your product again and again in various sizes and shapes. No one is saying that has to happen. We have one building we’d like handled, and then after that this can all disappear.”

Despite the Minister for Magic’s encouraging smile, despite the no-nonsense energy radiating from the Unspeakables letting him know he was being told the truth, Edgemoore continued to fidget in his seat, one hand in his left pocket as he turned something over and over with hidden fingers. He looked around, sweat beading at his temple, huffing half-sentences and fragmented noises of agitation before finally deflating with a pinched look.

“Look, I – I can’t explain how to do this because I don’t know.”

He stared at the silent government employees and gave another grunt of frustration.

“You’re really going to make me say- okay, fine. Fine! I didn’t invent Panafairό’s Box. I wasn’t part of the process at all, and I don’t understand how it works, I only know that it does, and I can only produce more because I borrowed Draco Malfoy’s notebooks before he left the country.”

“Malfoy?!”

Croaker and Shacklebolt exclaimed at the same time, though the Minister’s shout was complete shock and Croaker’s tone was full of curiosity and calculation.

“You _stole_ his work?!” Unspeakable Granger-Weasley was the last to speak, and so was the first to be answered.

“I _borrowed_ it. He worked for me, that was my right, and if he ever comes back to England, he can claim back his part of the business.

And, of course, it was Malfoy. He learned NEWT level charms and Master level arithmancy when he was 13 turning 14 for shits and giggles— and the first thing he did with the knowledge was whip up several hundred pins to make fun of Harry Potter at the Triwizard tournament _overnight_.”

He flipped the pin in he’d been fiddling with in his pocket onto the table where everyone could see it vacillating between _Potter stinks!_ and _Support Cedric Diggory!_

“It’s been a decade and the things still work, even though the charms haven’t been refreshed. How apt, then, that in his probationary down time he goofed up an easy way to clean out that foul manor of his and of course I monetized it. He just fucked off one day without a word and when I went looking through his corner of the shop to see if there was some clue I found the notebooks.

If there’s notes on how to do this without the box being a physical thing then I’m sure he came up with it. And you’re more than welcome to look through the old shop to see if he left anything beyond what you’ve got there. But I haven’t found anything, I didn’t know anything.”

Edgemoore stood and made his way to the door, obviously confident and arrogant once more after seeing the shattered look on the Minister of Magic’s face. He spoke without looking at any of them as he sauntered away. “And I appreciate that offer of secrecy concerning all this, Minister Shacklebolt. After all, wouldn’t want to put out a poor businessman.”

Unspeakable Granger-Weasley stood and walked up behind him as he reached for the door silently. “Of course, Mr. Edgemoore, we understand. Oh, and Mr. Edgemoore?”

He turned to glance at her, one hand on the door knob and a lazy smile on his lips. “Yes, pretty?”

“ _Obliviate_.”

+

After a small team of Unspeakables had removed Edgemoore from the room and the Ministry, the three sat together with the lights set back to normal, brainstorming. None of Croaker’s other teams had panned out and there was no back up plan, but in a week Headmistress Minerva McGonagall was going to send an official missive asking for one. At that point there’d be no keeping the Wizengamot out of it. The silence continued for a few minutes longer before Croaker could take no more of Kingsley’s fingers fidgeting and gestured for the man sat across from him to speak.

“Well then, Minister. You have an idea that you don’t like, but we aren’t coming up with anything better. What is it?”

Kingsley pinched at the air a few more times, thumb and pointer finger meeting and moving apart rapidly.

“Maybe we haven’t lost our original plan entirely. We wanted Edgemoore to unofficially fix Hogwarts off record. Edgemoore may have fallen through, but the magic hasn’t. It’s still possible. Edgemoore just isn’t the man capable of doing it.” He had both Unspeakables’ attention then, and he sighed. Of course, they were both drawn in just as he ran out of things to say. “The issue is that Draco Malfoy is apparently the man we need, and no one’s seen hide nor hair of him in years.”

Unspeakable Granger-Weasley leaned forward to speak but Croaker stopped her with a head shake, already answering her obvious questions.

“We can’t just call him in. We tried to contact him when Lucius died in Azkaban two years ago and couldn’t. Our hardiest, farthest-flying owls returned with unread messages. Locator and Point Me spells all spun uselessly. Modified trackers like those used to monitor underaged magic were tuned to his magical signature and couldn’t grab hold. When he didn’t turn up the Ministry went to claim the Manor and found ourselves thoroughly warded out; they still haven’t gotten in.”

“The only thing we could do,” Kingsley cut in, “would be to hire the best trackers and send them out into the world, and hope they manage to find him before the summer holidays end in August. As Minister there’s no way I could authorize that without it becoming public knowledge, nor could I give the Department of Mysteries the ability to authorize it without key people wondering what new project we’re cooking up. None of that inspires the people’s confidence and we really can’t take anymore families leaving.”

The two men sagged, dejected. Neither one noticed the way Unspeakable Granger-Weasley was gathering herself up.

“Don’t authorize any trackers then.”

“Then I’m back to deciding how to answer Minerva’s request for help.”

“No, you’re not. Because… because one of her faculty is going to advise her against making a formal complaint.”

She was standing now, gathering up notes and files, talking fast as she moved.

“And Head Unspeakable Croaker, I’m going to need the entire summer off. My husband’s been meaning to take some time off from the shop, and it’s been so long since Professor Potter had a vacation.”

She looked her boss in the eye, willing him to understand; Croaker caught on and decided he would help nudge Kingsely to the unspoken conclusion.

“Of course, that makes perfect sense to me. There is no formal emergency, not on any record that I know of, and I don’t think the three of you have had a long trip together since you went tracking the horcruxes.”

Ah. There was the understanding in Kinsley’s eye.

“You know, I’ve been meaning to speak to the Headmistress about a change in the alcohol provisions at ministry functions. Unspeakable Granger-Weasley, will you please pass on to her, either yourself or through Professor Potter, that I’m giving her her Quintin Black?”

The Minister nodded to each of them in turn and then swept out of the room without waiting for an answer. Head Unspeakable Croaker followed close behind after nodding in her direction. Hermione waited until they’d reached the end of the corridor and split off their separate ways before rushing back to her office, adrenaline making her giddy. In the privacy of her own mind she freely admitted that she missed the exhilaration of solving a good puzzle with her friends, and her mind had been buzzing since Harry brought up his concerns a fortnight ago at the Inn.

But before they could do anything about that, she needed to talk to Ron. And then Harry. And then he needed to talk to McGonagall and pass on the coded message to let her know this not-mission was Kingsley’s solution. And while all that occurred, she had a wizard to track. Malfoy had always been brilliant, but he’d also often been number two. There was no way he wouldn’t be found when the brightest witch of their age was looking for him.


	3. Born Hungry / Born Something / Born Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title inspired by Abbey by Mitski

#

When his cell phone alarm finally rang, Drake Macaria had already been awake for 35 minutes. He silenced the chiming marimba sound patch and made his way to the kitchen to set his coffee percolating before returning to his en-suite to clean up and get dressed. Soon he was standing in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom tying a Pratt knot from memory, eyes on his recently framed Bachelor of Science in Finance, CPA. He didn’t try to fight the cheesy smile that curled up his lips and sparkled in his eyes. Maybe he looked terrifyingly gleeful, but no one was there to judge him. He’d tone it down before he went to the office and he reserved the right to be beyond delighted. Five years of dogged hard work, two spent living in campus housing before he’d saved enough to move into an apartment with a roommate, and now here he was.

Two weeks into his new job with a pay increase more than enough to take over the rent when Thomas Otero had moved out just before graduation. His best friend had been hired by a software firm based in Manchester as soon as he was credited with his Master’s and had skipped walking to relocate; Drake knew that it would be a while before either of them would visit the other. Not that it was too terrible; he wasn’t ready to live in such close quarters with anyone else and he needed the space. He pulled his hair back with a wide stretchy alice band, smoothed down the front of his shirt, and turned away from his reflection.

Travel mug of coffee in hand, Drake swept out his front door and down the hall to the stairwell that led down into the parking garage, laptop bag banging into his hip as he walked to his green Sonata. It didn’t take him long to reach the tower of office buildings where Henley and Dodge Advisors was located, and even less time to get inside now that he had a proper spot in the employee garage, instead of having to search the free lot across the street where interns mixed with the general public.

The bank of elevators with their mirrored inner walls felt even more luxurious knowing that they were taking him to his own office instead of the small room part-timers shared. He schooled his face into the calming and reassuring smile he used to greet clients and made his way to the solid wooden door with _Drake Macaria, CFA CPA_ written across its placard. He loved interacting with clients, and he was humbled by how many accounts he’d only assisted with during his years interning had requested to be permanently placed under him when he’d begun full-time. The other financial planners had been proud to share the burden with him, confident in his knowledge and ability.

Eight hours later saw him change into gym clothes before heading to the local humane society to jog with some of the more active dogs, only to find that the majority of their pending adoptions had finally gone through. A much shorter run than expected later, he made his goodbyes and went home to shower and change again before driving to a small second-hand bookstore on the other side of town. Drake smiled at Victoria where she was helping a customer figure out the shelving system and headed straight to the back where new inventory is waiting to be catalogued. He wouldn’t have the energy to bounce from place to place every day, but with his run cut short he found himself with the time to get a mid-week jump on his weekend volunteer work. The small bookstore made him feel connected to the community, like he was more aware of the comings and goings outside of university life and work. Like he had roots.

As he set the books too damaged to be sold aside to be added to the Free Book Trade buckets near the store front a battered copy of The Silmarillion tucked in the back of an old plastic bag seemed to call to him. That book had been an anchor for him when he first started college. Drake grabbed it, already deciding which of the books in his car he was going to trade in for the abused tome when a folded flyer fell out. He picked it up to toss it, and gave it a quick skim to make sure it wasn’t important enough to be returned when he noticed it was recent and advertised an Ultimate Frisbee league for young professionals that was looking to start up. A plan to make his humane society visits biweekly and join the league was half formed when his thoughts were interrupted by a light feminine voice. 

“Drake! I know for a fact you haven’t had dinner yet. Some of the other volunteers are meeting at the new Thai place in midtown; are you riding with me or am I riding with you or are we following each other in our own cars because we are both definitely going.”

A look up towards the front confirmed that Vic wasn’t even looking at him as she spoke, confident in his acquiescence. And for good reason; he loved Thai food. Tucking the flyer back into the book he pushed the rest of the new inventory aside till he returned on Saturday.

“Yeah that sounds good. Just let me run out to my car and grab a book to trade in and then I’ll follow you so I can drive home earlier if needed. Work in the morning.”

She scrunched her nose in commiseration and nodded her understanding. They both loved their jobs, but the grind of it wore away at even the most fulfilled employees. Not thirty minutes later saw him and five other 20 somethings settled around a table littered with waters and beers and teas. Their orders were in and the group was loud as they laughed and shared what was going on for each of them as they transitioned from school to work or undergrad to grad school or job to job.

These were his peers, though he was older than most of them, but they understood him. Had supported him and encouraged him and believed in him as if the temporariness of university meant nothing in the face of personal connections. Within the week half these people would be gone and moved on with their lives. None of that changed the settled feeling growing warm in Drake’s chest. He knew, he could live the rest of his life just like that.

\+ 

Ron jogged up the stairs and walked down the balcony along the front of the motel. Their room was on the second floor facing directly out over the parking lot. He readjusted his grip on the bag of deli sandwiches and crisps and walked a little faster, the way the cardboard of the cupholder was starting to cut off the circulation in his fingers spurring him on. When he finally reached their door, he gave it a light kick.

“Mione? Harry? Someone come open the door, my hands are too full to manage the key card.”

The was shuffling and then Harry pulled the door open, one finger to his lips as he stepped out onto the balcony to take the drink carrier out of Ron’s poor hand.

“She’s doing arithmancy and she’s very tetchy because she’s almost got him. Come in quietly.”

Ron followed him into the room, deposited dinner on the dresser holding the TV, and settled on the full-sized bed closest to the door and furthest from the desk where Hermione was working. From the number of circles he could see drawn it was clear she was almost done, and the thought made him giddy. Handling this mystery as adults was so much simpler than anything they’d done as kids; of course, convincing Malfoy might be the hardest part of all. It had been mostly an educated guess that he’d come through the New York MACUSA offices, but a sneaky invisibility cloak induced look at the immigration records had confirmed Malfoy’s arrival with cash. It hadn’t said where he was headed, but that seemed like it was going to end up a non-issue as well.

“Alright!”

“You’ve got him, Herm?!”

“Brilliant, love, brilliant!”

Ron applauded while Hermione basked in their praise for a few seconds, giving a silly bow before grabbing the bag of food and passing out sandwiches.

“Of course. It’s looking like he’s in southern California, outside Los Angeles. If we rest up now and then take turns, we can make it there in five side-along jumps. From here in Rochester to mid-West Virginia, to west Tennessee, to western Oklahoma to central New Mexico to Los Angeles itself. The jumps get smaller in distance covered as we go, and this will keep the number of times we have to interact with the American magical system low.”

Ron started in on his sandwich, spirits high as ever. He’d known this trip was going to be a piece of cake, but this was even simpler than he’d expected. It felt good.


	4. Memory and Clairvoyance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title taken from ch 1 of The Raven King by M. Stiefvater

#

The muffled pop of Ron’s apparition and side-alongs were lost under the sounds of the freeway. Tucked out of sight under an overpass, the three old friends found themselves standing in the middle of a wide and shallow creek. Each of them made the personal choice not to mention that this was probably part of the sewage system, unhooked their arms, and made their way to the grassy bank on the sides to spell themselves dry (and clean).

Ron finished first and walked out to peek up at a road sign, trying to get an idea of where they were and how far along across the sky the sun was. He was sure they were somewhere in central New Mexico given his knack for blind apparition. Glaring out over the barren landscape against the late afternoon sun’s brilliance, he called back over his shoulder.

“Think either of you are up for the last jump to Los Angeles?”

“Absolutely not.” Hermione answered before Harry could respond, and the way she stared him down instead of looking at Ron as she replied insured, he wouldn’t agree to make the jump in spite of her.

“We’ve already done at least one each today, and getting us here made for your second, Ron. There’s no point in showing up on Malfoy’s doorstep exhausted and unable to defend ourselves because we spent all our energy apparating across this massive country.”

Harry conceded the point with a sigh. “In any case, I should probably just take us near enough to walk into the nearest town and find a motel for the evening. We can rest up and continue on.”

“Actually,” Ron rejoined his two travel partners and pointed back towards the hillock he’d started climbing, “I think there’s a town just over that rise, close enough to reach without ending up too sweaty. We’ve all got our dollars and American Muggle identification on us?”

Hermione patted at her back pocket carefully. “After the mess in West Virginia I’ve only got $25 on me.”

“Herm, could you get my American ID out of your bag? I’ve got cash.”

Harry and Hermione sorted themselves out and then fell in beside Ron. A light Notice Me Not allowed them to get from under the freeway and closer to town. Hermione dropped it when they reached a point where she figured it would be reasonable to find people on foot in. The air began to cool as the day edged towards evening, and she untied the sweater around her waist to slip it on.

It didn’t take them more than 30 minutes to find a quiet enough motel. There wasn’t a lot of traffic around it nor was it completely abandoned. The lobby around the front desk was an odd mixture of kitschy southwestern décor and patterns from the 70s. Paintings of cacti and horses in cheap wooden frames hung along the walls in uneven intervals, clearly spaced to cover pealing vinyl wallpaper. Ron and Hermione sank into the aggressively orange pleather armchairs leaving Harry at the front desk to secure the room. He rang the little silver bell and waited; no sound came from the back room.

Lost in thought, Ron came back to himself when Harry tapped the bell a second time, albeit a bit more forcefully. The sound of a truck grumbled dully nearby. He wasn’t sure when he and Hermione had started holding hands, but he appreciated the intimacy nonetheless; she seemed lost in thought herself as his thumb stroked over her knuckles. Tugging lightly to get her attention, he gave her a warm smile.

“You did a great job with the arithmancy, Mione. We’re gonna find him in no time. Honestly, McGonagall should’ve just gone straight to Harry when she noticed something was up. Between the two of you we’d’ve been out here and back home weeks ago.”

That earned him a small huff of laughter that slowly died off again as her face settled into something much more sedated.

”I’m a little worried. I never doubted my ability to find him, but I did think it would take a bit more effort to pinpoint his location.”

“He’s never been any match for you, love.”

“He has been though. In different subjects over the years, from project to project and class to class. I’d be first, and then he’d be first. He’s not stupid. He invented Panafairό’s Box while serving community service and completing enough work to be eligible for a Potions Mastery and a Charms Mastery, neither of which he ever declared. What does it mean that his trail is so obvious like this? Are we walking into a trap? And even if we aren’t – how are we going to convince him to help?”

Ron watched her brow furrow further and further as she whispered her concerns, voice never rising above a mutter. They were good questions, and he wasn’t sure of what answers would be most useful. So, he held on to her hand and watched her stare off into the corner of the room. It was corny and she’d probably cuff his shoulder if he ever said it out loud but looking at her helped him think. Not so much a muse as a focus; he only had to look at her face to calm down enough to dig into a more strategic, logical mindset and if he remembered Malfoy well enough that’s the exact kind of perspective, they’d need to bring him home. That and a lot of patience. Maybe a little intimidation. They both jerked in their seats when Harry rang the bell a third time, slamming it into the counter.

He turned back to them with a sigh, hand pushed into his hair.

“I don’t think anyone’s coming to give us a room, guys. They must not be in; pure ludicrousness stepping out without leaving a sign for customers and the front door unlocked.”

Ron took one last look around the lobby before following Hermione and Harry out the front door. Three men stood in the parking lot facing them a pickup truck parked haphazardly behind them, the brims of their hats pulled down to see their eyes. The feeling of being sized up shivered up Ron’s spine and he automatically set his feet, rocking up on to the balls of his feet. He watched as Harry stepped slightly forward, his left pointer finger tapping at the air in anticipation.

“Hey guys. Would any of you happen to know where the proprietor of this motel is?”

The tallest man adjusted his hat and tilted his head back to peer down his nose at Harry, making up for the centimeters he had to look up to meet Harry’s eyes. Ron started glancing around for exit paths. Harry and Hermione could make up for his lack of attention while he mapped the escape he was sure they’d need. Something about that bloke’s expression smacked just a bit too much of Lucius Malfoy. Arrogant, haughty, prone to violence.

“Y’all English then? What are you here for? How’d you get here?”

“I don’t see what business of yours that is, sir, but we’re here on vacation.” Hermione answered him, polite in her dismissal.

“You guys came in to town from the south east. Dan saw you walk past the diner.”

The other two men were spreading out, flanking the main speaker as if they meant to cut the three strangers off.

“Thing is, the thing about that is, the bus stop is a ways away north, too far for walking. The regional airport is two towns over, and all the taxis drop off newcomers off west that way. We’re good calm people in this town, and we don’t tolerate strangers bringing in nonsense. So, I’m gonna ask again. How did y’all get here?”

A second pickup truck pulled into the lot, and then a third. The main speaker smirked at them. He postured like he was only defending his town, but Ron could see the cruelty tucked into the upper corner of that half-smile. The time of talking was past. There was nothing they could say that was going to stop this man from steering the confrontation towards violence. He wanted it.

“You know what? I’m not very interested in this impromptu interrogation.” Ron took Hermione’s hand and rested the other on Harry’s lower back. “We don’t want any trouble so we’ll just head out. Sleep in the next town. Good evening gentlemen.”

Of course, the men didn’t intend to let them leave. Ron only wanted to provoke them to act so when Harry started blowing shite up to distract them it didn’t seem too far-fetched for all of them to assume the explosions were something, they were responsible for. And of course, it worked.

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

The human embodiment of cruelty in need of an outlet lunged towards Harry, clearly trying to take out their “muscle” first and found himself confused when he grabbed at air. Harry had dodged his hands with a neat lean to the right; the minute movement thwarting him had rage crawling red up his cheeks and he yelled as he lunged again.

“Get them!”

The third truck to enter the parking lot lurched into motion even as men jumped out of the flatbed in the back and the car backfired loudly. The sound seemed to double and expand, coming from all directions. Hermione got a few good hits in before she was shoved into a wall, and then a Confundus that felt like _Harry_ descended over the parking lot. Ron fought to think through the vague confusion, staggering over to grab Hermione’s arm as she stood. One of the other men managed to land an accidental punch on Harry’s jaw, causing him to trip backwards into Ron. He gripped his best friend and his wife and thought _hard_. His apparition was weak and jarring but he had hold of the both of them, and then they were gone.

+

The sky was grey with the first stirrings of dawn when Harry came to. He remained where he lay, taking slow stock of himself. He wiggled his toes, barely. Still in control of his legs and feet, still had his socks and trainers on. Next were his fingers, one by one, tapping the gritty dirt below him. Still in control of his arms and hands, apparently laying on the ground outside. Carefully, he opened his eyes, slow enough that even the meager light before sunrise didn’t strain his vision. Three birds flew overhead, their white bellies and gray wings clear as they dipped and twirled. He was wearing his glasses then. As soon as he had the thought, he could feel them resting on his face, heavy against the bridge of his nose.

_Breath in, breathe out. Sit up and take stock of where you are and the space you occupy._

He could imagine his Mind Healer urging him on and so he did; very carefully Harry began his exercises to get his bearings. Five things he could see: Ron lying on the ground to his left, Hermione lying on Ron’s other side. The birds. An LED highway sign announcing that the City of Phoenix was 83 miles away. A small town in the distance. Four things he could touch – he patted himself down and cast a quick diagnostic spell to solidify that he was fine, and then checked each of his friends in turn for injury, before running his fingers over a rock just to say he’d hit four. He could hear traffic in the distance, the birds nearby chirping, a cricket trilling. He smelled dirt, and that ozone tang that preceded rain. Harry reached into his jacket’s inner pocket, pulled out a stick of gum, and popped it into his mouth. There. Now he tasted mint, had fresher breath, and was calm enough to be useful. Just in time too, because right then Ron sat straight up and scrabbled to check on his wife before whipping his head around to find Harry.

“So, can I assume from your settled expression that we’re out of danger and unharmed, then?” Ron rocked back on to his bum and pulled his legs in crisscross. He shifted Hermione till her head was rested in his lap, out of the dirt.

“Yeah. I think we’re in Arizona. Gum?”

Ron accepted the proffered sweet and chewed it slowly, looking back over his shoulder to the highway where workers headed home from a late shift or in to an early shift flew across the asphalt. Harry watched the sign catch his eye and saw the tension that had bled out of Ron’s shoulders return to ratchet them back up.

“Phoenix wouldn’t be a terrible jump.”

“Maybe, if we were well rested or hadn’t just been in a massive dust-up. Maybe, if you hadn’t just side-alonged two adults twice in a row.” Harry waited until Ron was looking at him to shake his head and nod behind him. “There’s another town over that way. Its larger than the one we just got ran out of, so it’s probably less insular. We should try to at least get a room to sleep in tonight. Plan for when we see Malfoy?”

“I agree with Harry.”

Both men started at the sound of Hermione’s voice. Her eyes were still closed and she hadn’t moved at all. The only hint that she’d woken up and they hadn’t hallucinated her voice was the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed deeply, her own method of centering herself. She held in one last large huff of air and exhaled it slowly as she sat up to peer at each of them.

“We ought to start walking. And take more care to enter the town from a direction that makes sense. It smells like it’s going to rain soon, and I don’t want us caught out in it.”

Her voice was soft and exhausted, but steady. They all stood and double checked their pockets for their shrunken backpacks which were expanded and then settled across their shoulders. Harry finished first and then tilted his head in consideration of the highway.

“Perhaps we should just say that we’re backpacking across the country and we got a lift this far from a lorry driver. No one can verify it and it would explain why we’re so dusty.”

Ron and Hermione nodded in agreement, and then the trio of friends slowly made their way across the desert.

Their planned excuse was never used, because the older gentleman manning the front desk of the first hotel they stopped at didn’t care and didn’t ask. They paid for the room in cash, cleaned up as quickly as possible, and fell into the beds just as the first rain clouds broke.

+

Harry inhaled slowly through his nose as he curled the dumbbell towards his shoulder and exhaled through his mouth as he counted out the last few repetitions in his set. Eyes focused on his reflection in the wall of mirrors, he ignored the rest of the hotel lobby on the other side of the bank of windows behind him. His form stayed tight and precise, the strain of his biceps as they flexed practiced and intentional. He’d needed this peace, this focus, and he didn’t have time to re-do any part of his work out. He wanted to be back in the room and showered before Ron and Hermione woke up. He knew he didn’t have long; they’d all slept most of the day prior to recover from the fight and repeated apparition, only waking for meals and then continuing to sleep through the night. They couldn’t possibly sleep much longer.

“…eight, nine, ten.”

He wiped down and re-racked his weights and made his way to the elevator. As the floor display slowly climbed Harry let his mind wander. It’d been a decade since The Battle of Hogwarts, eleven years since the horcrux hunt. It had all been so terrible, so hectic and scattered that he had been sure it had permanently branded him from the inside out. He knew for a fact that it had, and he was still on the road to recovery from the experience and everything that preceded it in his life. And yet, some way, somehow, he’d grown detached. The feelings and realities of that situation had lost their edge and he’d paid for it the day before in some no name town in New Mexico.

The elevator dinged at his floor, and he walked out into the empty hallway to make his way to the door at the end of the corridor. He considered all the ways the curse in the Room of Requirement had manifested in the past few weeks before the end of term. The text of documents seemed to shift and change the closer he’d gotten to the Room. Notes he’d taken on remedies to try had turned to nonsense and non sequiturs. Shadows moved independently of their objects, until he couldn’t remember if his own shadow was predicting his movements before he’d decided to take them or if he was the following thing. Every step, every decision, had been in question. The entire floor was filled with the faint smell of a sulfuric stench that clung to the skin and as long as he could smell it his shoulders were covered in ash. Whatever was in the Room seemed ready to pervert the entire world if it got out.

How had they ever come on this absurd trip to find Malfoy without the proper gravitas? Where had the urgency been? The caution? The respect for potential calamity? How had they been found so unaware?

Harry closed the door quietly behind him and made his way into the shower, careful not to wake his sleeping friends. Steam filled the bathroom with no fan on to dissipate it. Considering his reflection again Harry brushed his teeth and stripped down. There was no guarantee that Malfoy would be easy to convince; in fact, history said he’d probably disagree out of spite. Their main objective was ultimately dependent on the whim of a man none of them had ever managed to successfully persuaded to do a damned thing. All the more reason to be careful; the process would be difficult enough without allowing themselves to get jumped in the middle of a parking lot by suspicious Muggles.

Harry was mostly sure Ron and Hermione would agree, but assuming things was what had led to the prior day’s altercation to begin with. He would shower, he would speak to them clearly, and then they would get breakfast. They would not be pulled apart by miscommunication, by jealousy or arrogance. They were older, seasoned, and if the Forest of Dean hadn’t broken them neither would the American southwest. Or Malfoy.

+

There were very few feelings worse than disappointing someone held in high esteem. Hermione was convinced that one of those few feelings was being disappointed in yourself. The frustration born from knowing that she was capable of better and missed the mark anyway burned in her veins as she led the way to a small tea shop she’d looked up in the hotel’s business center. Ron and Harry walked behind her on the wide sidewalk, quiet as they took in their surroundings.

Harry’d been right that earlier when he pointed out the arrogance that had been bred out of familiarity. Golden Trio, off on another whirlwind adventure. They’d all bought into their own press a bit and had approached the situation too laxly. In the interim they’d gotten themselves so thoroughly tossed around that they’d lost an entire day and night to sleep, recovery, and strategizing. And she was the guiltiest, by her own estimation. Harry and Ron should’ve been more careful as well, admittedly, but they were a school professor and a store owner respectively. As much as she respected their talents for fighting, for detective work, for observation, she was the only one who had honed those talents into skills. All those necessity-driven capabilities that she’d sharpened in the underbelly of the Ministry, that she’d perfected in the unlit corridors only Unspeakables saw.

And they were all useless unless she used them.

She took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, counting to herself as they turned the last block before the tea shop. She wouldn’t be sorry. She’d be different. Start again from the beginning. They’d gone over her earlier arithmancy as a group, made new plans for how to approach Malfoy in Los Angeles, set up wards so complex around their room and their belongings that any plausible deniability Ron and Harry’d had regarding her profession was shot to hell.

Hermione nodded to herself, affirming her rededication to always checking and double checking when the door of the tea shop began to swing outward. The men fell into a line behind her as they all moved aside to let whoever was leaving out and then all three of them lost their breath. Steaming to-go cup in one hand, face bent towards the smart phone in his other, Draco Malfoy walked out of the shop, barely glanced over them, and rushed off to a plain green car with barely a _Good morning._

He slid into his driver’s seat and then the car pulled out of the lot and drove away.

Ron recovered first.

“So, we all agree we just saw bloody fucking Malfoy, right? Did I hallucinate that alone?”

“We all definitely saw,” Harry whispered, “but did you _hear_? That American accent, as if he’d never been in the UK at all.”

“Both of those things matter, but before we can find any answers concerning all of that we’re going to have to deal with the fact that he didn’t seem to recognize us at all.”

Hermione rolled her shoulders to stretch and then continued inside the shop. So, her arithmancy had been off after all. Or maybe she was right, and they’d just found some unfortunate Malfoy-doppelganger. Either way, she was going to need a strong cup of Assam to think through this one. They might as well have breakfast in the meantime.

+

“Time has, quite literally, never moved slower.”

Drake nodded solemnly, eyes fixed on the face of the slight man slumped against the doorway to his office. Worthington Hirai was six months his senior at Henley and Dodge, which for all intents and purposes made them equals. Any seniority he might’ve had was summarily dismissed in Drake’s third week in the office, when he’d dragged the tall blonde out to lunch so they could “get on with bonding and becoming work best friends”.

Drake was grateful for the man’s persistence because the result had been a friendship that went beyond the office, and since Thomas had moved away Worth was one of the closest friends he had.

“Look on the bright side, Worth, we only have three hours of work left. That means you only have to get through the next thirty minutes, six times. Practically no work at all.”

“Nice try, but this day feels like I live fifty years with every fifteen minutes that passes, never mind every thirty.”

“Yeah, yeah, come on.” Drake locked his work computer and stood up with a great stretch. “We’re headed downstairs to the café then. Maybe a cup of coffee and a muffin will help the day pass.”

“I adore you, you know?”

Drake smirk as he edged past the shorter man and hit his light switch, snagging the jacket he’d received at his first company retreat against the chill of the lobby.

“Don’t get too caught up in the adulation yet. I got last time; you’re paying for both of us.”

He strode down the hall to the elevators laughing, leaving his friend to splutter as he tried to catch up.

+

Hermione, Ron, and Harry stood in the lobby of the eight-story office building and stared at the directory of companies and organizations it housed within. None of the names listed screamed _pretentious pureblood pricks who send apology letters for being arseholes in their youth and then fuck off to America before the apology can be accepted or rejected work here!!_ But then again, if any of them had, they’d’ve all been suspicious of the overly-fortuitous coincidence. The earlier commitment to caution hadn’t left them yet. Still, the Malfoy look alike had been dressed in a button down and slacks as if he’d been heading to work, and this building was where their eventual Point Me spell had led them. A discreet flick of her wrist, and a small parchment appeared in Hermione’s hands. Words filled the front, and she tucked it into the front pocket of her jeans.

“What do you think, Mione?”

Hermione released her lower lip from between her teeth to answer Ron quietly.

“It’s taking down the names of all the business listed here. When it’s done we can head back to the hotel’s business center and start looking up company websites. Hopefully they all have Meet the Team pages with photos we can scroll through.”

Ron nodded his understanding, pivoted on one foot, and clapped Harry on the shoulder.

“Alright, let’s have it then.”

“Have what, mate?”

“Some of that infamous Potter luck. That ‘oh no, how will it work out, not a massive troll, oh would you look at that – two new best friends / a timeturner / a phoenix / a wand I just won off a chap who was master of the most powerful wand ever and now I’m the master of death oops’ Potter special. That–”

The ginger’s grin was smug and teasing as continued, his low whisper utterly lost under Harry’s snorting laugh. Hermione turned her back to them both, shoulders shaking lightly. There’d been a time when the thought of just how much sheer lucky happenstance had stood between each of them and death was enough to pitch them all into a maudlin tailspin. These days it all felt so ludicrous that they couldn’t help but laugh at it.

It was mid-laugh that Harry responded, “Oh sure, I’ll just look over at the elevators there and the bell will ding announcing one of their arrivals, and then Malfoy himself will walk out.”

And it was mid-laugh that they all flinched into silence at the chime that sounded as soon as Harry finished speaking. They all turned in concert to look at the elevator with clenched jaws. A short East Asian man stepped out and they relaxed as one. The man turned to speak to someone coming behind him, and then Draco Malfoy followed him out, gait graceful and smile easy, hands stuffed into the pockets of his slacks and the right sleeve of his unzipped hoodie pushed up to the elbow. The two headed off towards the back of the lobby, never noticing the three adults staring at each other gobsmacked near the front doors.

The scratching sound of the parchment in Hermione’s pocket filling with words finally stopped and she gave herself a slight shake.

“Well, Harry. The Potter luck seems to be holding, though the elevator’s ding preceded you looking over.” She gave him a wan smile. “Much obliged though.”

Hermione led the way after the two men. Harry didn’t respond, instead pulling up the rear of their little group. Neither of them acknowledged Ron’s soft _what the fuck_.

They found him in a small coffee shop, sitting at a table tucked in the back corner while his companion stood in line. The hoodie was now zipped up and both sleeves pulled down, one hand tucked in the jacket’s pocket while the other lazily held a phone as he scrolled. Hermione stopped in the doorway, suddenly perturbed. They hadn’t planned anything, not what to say, not how to act. They still weren’t positive this man was Malfoy, though he certainly looked like an older version of him if Malfoy had grown up to be relaxed and kind with a warm smile. Harry’s hand on her shoulder and Ron’s settling in the small of her back calmed her.

Unspeakables worked alone, even when they were all together, and if she’d been running point on this she’d’ve retreated back to her hotel for reconnaissance and research. But this wasn’t an Unspeakable’s Ministry sanctioned mission. She was Hermione Jean Granger-Weasley trying to appeal to an old classmate to save a school they’d both loved and excelled in, and her two best friends were by her side. She approached the table, confident they were close behind her, until she was standing over his table though he hadn’t looked up from his phone yet.

“Just set the drinks down, Worth, I’m almost done with this article. Gimme 3.8 seconds and we can head back up to the office.”

“Uhm, I’m not,” she cleared her throat and spoke more firmly, “I’m not Worth.”

Malfoy looked up from his phone, to stare at her face

“Oh. You sure aren’t.” He responded, accent wide and words run together, purely American in cadence. Glancing behind her at her companions his expression grew a bit stony, and he leaned towards her, voice lowered. “Are these men bothering you? Do you need help?”

His offer of assistance, lack of recognition, and accent all battled to be the most surprising thing about the interaction in her mind but Hermione set them all aside and blustered an answer before he could stand up and fight.

“Oh, no, no! These are my friends, they’re fine.” Hermione stepped to the side and gestured for Harry and Ron to step forward so she could see them and Malfoy at the same time. “But I was wondering if you might be able to help us.”

Just like that, his expression opened up with a wide and beatific smile.

“Oh, well that changes things then! How can I help you guys?”

Ron and Harry’s faces didn’t betray a thing, but Hermione could read the incredulousness in the arch of their eyebrows and the set of their shoulders. She felt it bubbling herself. Ron’s eyes flicked over the blonde quickly before he pointed at the logo on his jacket.

“You work here, then? At Henley and Dodge?”

Malfoy gave a light _ah_ and nodded as he stood. He slipped his phone into his front pocket, reached around to his back pocket for his wallet, and then handed each of them a business card he plucked from the leather folds before sliding the wallet back into his trousers to shake all of their hands in turn.

“Drake Macaria, Certified Public Accountant, at your service. The first number listed on the card is for Henley and Dodge’s front desk and the second is the line directly to my office. If you have any large wealth or significant assets you’d like managed then I suggest calling the front desk so they can get an appointment with a Certified Financial Planner set up for you, but if you’d like to reorganize your budget or plan to save up for a large purchase then I’d be more than glad to assist you.”

He slid his hands into his jacket pockets and grinned as he rocked up on the balls of his feet.

“Of course, the office is full of CPAs who could help you with that, and you’d be in great hands with any one of them. We’re salaried, and don’t receive commission for bringing in new clients, so you don’t have to worry about me overselling myself or undervaluing my coworkers. The whole company is amazing, and you’d do well with any one of us.”

Harry turned the card over in his hands and stared at Draco– Drake in undisguised awe.

“Yeah, then.”

Drake only huffed a small laugh in response. “Sorry, I know my personality can be kinda overwhelming. I’ve always been rather dramatic. If a more sedate CPA is what you need, then I highly suggest not hiring Worthington Hirai either, as he’s ten times worse than I am.”

“You’re a terrible friend. I buy you coffee and this is how you repay me?”

The trio turned to see the shorter Asian man from before standing behind them with two to-go cups in hand. He was smiling, clearly used to and fine with the ribbing. Drake picked up a bunch of napkins from the holder in the center and then edged around the table to stick half of them into the newcomer’s front pocket before taking the larger coffee out of his hand.

“Ah, I’m just messing. Watch yourself Worth, you know how hot they brew it.” He turned back to the trio. “I hope you find what you need in our firm. Our afternoon break is almost over so we’ve got to get back upstairs, but our office is on the eighth floor. We work by appointment and with walk-ins, though appointment is better if you want to guarantee working with a specific CPA or CFP. Have a good day!”

“Yeah, have a wonderful day.” Worth waved at the group with one hand and then followed Drake out of the coffee shop.

The trio watched the two coworkers drift back out towards the elevators, chatting as they went. Hermione turned to Harry and Ron. “How surreal was that?”

Harry shook his head, eyes still dazed. “It’s like he’s a whole different person.”

“If it wasn’t for how obviously close Drake Macaria is to Draco Malfoy I’d say we’d found a perfect lookalike.” Ron flicked the name card in his hand as they all considered it.

“Well,” Hermione answered. “Looks like our research objective has changed. We already know where he works. Let’s go see what we can look up about who Drake Macaria is.”

+

If running into Malfoy had been strange, if meeting him at his job was surreal, then standing on the sideline watching him warm up before an Ultimate Frisbee scrimmage was otherworldly. He’d run past Ron and Hermione twice to catch the disc when a toss went wide but hadn’t said anything about their presence.

They weren’t the only ones on the sides of the pitch, but they were the only two standing. All the other spectators sat in lawn chairs they’d brought themselves. Harry’d left 10 minutes ago to “get the chairs out of the car now that they had a spot”. Who knew what he was trying to transfigure into seats. Hermione read through the information they’d put together on Macaria a fifth time, brain going in circles as she repeated a debate the three of them had hashed out while still in the hotel.

All records of Macaria came to Arizona by way of New York; though Rochester was listed as his place of origin there was no record of him in upstate New York at all. His appearance in the States seemed to coincide with Malfoy’s disappearance from Britain, but Macaria was listed as non-magical and appeared to do nothing even remotely wizarding. He’d enrolled in university, worked in a diner, switched to an internship, graduated, gotten a job, and spent his free time with friends or volunteering. He looked just like Malfoy but acted nothing like him, and the more they thought on it the less sure of anything they were.

Harry returned with three chairs tucked under his arms, all unfolded like he couldn’t’ve been bothered to transfigure the collapsing mechanisms accurately. His arms strained lightly, almost in non-effort. His expression was the same carefully placid one he used when journos surrounded him in Diagon Alley, though his cheeks glowed warm under his even brown complexion. Hermione looked beyond him to see the small fan club his display of strength had earned him, smirked, and reached to nudge Ron. His eyes widened in panic and he gave a small shake of his head; they both knew Ron would take the piss out of him if he noticed.

In fact, Ron should’ve been mocking Harry already, and Hermione focused on him as Harry set down the chairs so they could finally sit.

“Harry, Mione, look at this.” The ginger jerked his chin towards where Malfoy stood on the field as the referee called both teams to order.

“Look at his face. Whether he remembers us and is faking or if he’s really forgotten, that’s fucking Malfoy. I’ll never forget that look on his face.”

Hermione heard Harry’s swift inhale as he looked where Ron was gesturing.

“I’ve seen him look like that a million times on the Quidditch pitch.” He tilted his head consideringly. “I think I kind of miss it.”

“Harry, mate. Please.”

“Our rivalry drove me to practice for hours until my game was perfect; you can’t blame me if I realize I miss that motivation.”

They settled in to watch the game, remembering the way he moved and lining up some of his actions with the muscle memory being a Seeker had developed.

Macaria jumped to catch the frisbee and pivoted hard to whip it to a teammate before sprinting off causing Harry to groan. “And he looks fucking brilliant. This is an open league, right? You think I can learn this fast enough to be in the next scrimmage?”

“Harry James, the school you attended, live in, and currently work at is in grave danger and this man may be the only one who can fix it. Getting your cock wet cannot be the priority here.”

Hermione lectured at him exasperatedly as Ron sniggered and only got a brazen shrug for her efforts.

“Maybe if we’re teammates I can do some recon. Get close enough to convince him to help. And if he chooses to crawl under the exquisite specimen of wizard that I am in the process, why would I deny either of us that experience?”

Drake’s team scored a goal and the roar of the crowd went up before Hermione could respond, not that it mattered. Harry’s eyes were firmly on the field, watching the man they were all now convinced was their missing wizard laugh and celebrate with his teammates. Hermione turned to do the same, vaguely troubled at his bright smile. How had Malfoy ended up here? How had he ended up so happy, so content? Was saving the school really worth uprooting the life of a man who’d paid his debt to society and then clearly moved on?

The referee blew their whistle to restart the match. Of course, it was worth it. And it’s not like Malfoy had to ruin his life to help. He could take a few weeks off from work, apparate to England, clean up the mess that (honestly) he’d helped cause, and return here. Easy.

If that thought didn’t land quite right, Hermione refused to acknowledge it, instead taking Ron’s hand and asking him to explain the rules again. She hadn’t been listening carefully earlier and she wanted to understand what was happening

+

Drake nodded to them cheerfully the next time he saw them in the lobby of his office building.

The second time he looked at them in confusion as he continued on.

He did a double take when he saw them sitting at a table in his tea shop, but as he was on his way out and they were clearly half way through a pot and a stack of toast he visibly shook it off and kept walking.

It was when he came back from taking the humane society dogs on a run to find Hermione, Ron, and Harry playing with the rabbits that he finally approached them again.

“Alright. This is starting to feel strange, and I want to give you guys the benefit of the doubt because the alternative is too disturbing to consider. Why are you everywhere I go in town? Can I help you?”

The kind words were belied by the hard stare he gave each of them in turn, but Hermione was ready for this. They’d done plenty of research into this new Drake Macaria and decided the best way to feel out if he’d been Obliviated was to get him to approach them. If he felt like the confrontation was on his terms, he’d probably be more likely to be forthcoming.

“We’re sorry if we’ve made you uncomfortable. A lot of these meetings _have_ been coincidence but since you’re talking to us now- have you ever been to or lived in England?”

“Absolutely not. Why?”

Ron peered up at where Hermione and Macaria were standing from his vantage on the floor with the rabbits. Harry had moved to the other side of the room, cleaned his hands, and was handling a small snake as he watched Hermione work.

“Only, you look a lot like an old classmate we need to get hold off because there’s something wrong with the school we went to… almost as if it was cursed. We think he could help us fix it and, well, when we thought you were him…”

Macaria seemed to deflate and shook his shirt to get air flow.

“Well, I’m not him. I don’t know you and we’ve never gone to school together, so I can’t be sure I can help you. I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. If some of these run-ins have been coincidences then I suppose you really can’t help those, but please. Chill out on the ones you can help.”

Harry shifted subtly to be in Macaria’s path as he turned away from Hermione and said something to the snake in his hands. Whatever he’d said to it in Parseltongue caused it to climb up his arm. They all held their breath as they waited to see what Macaria would say. After living with Voldemort in his home for so long he had to have some kind of reaction.

Instead the American stared Harry down blandly.

“Please put the snake down and stop hissing at it. No offense, dude, but that’s kinda weird.”

And then he was gone again through a back employees-only door. The snake on Harry’s arm hissed and he belly laughed in response before hissing in reply as he set the small snake back down. Hermione and Ron followed him out of the shop, the spring in his step as obvious as the hesitance weighted on their brows.

“Harry?” Hermione asked, “What did that snake say?”

“Oh, he was just asking if Malfoy and I would mate soon. He said we smelt like we’d been pent up over each other for years. I told him that wasn’t my main goal in confronting his handler, and then he said ‘so it is a goal of yours then?’. Cheeky bugger, that snake. Maybe I should adopt him.”

Ron was the one to say it out loud.

“I don’t know, mate. The man seemed pretty adamant. What if that _isn’t_ Malfoy?”

Harry only side-eyed his two friends.

“And right before he told me to stop hissing at the snake, you’re telling me that the unimpressed look on his face as he stared at me wasn’t patented Draco Malfoy circa 1st through 6th years? That right before he called me “dude” we weren’t all expecting him to say _Potter_?”

“He looked me dead in the eyes and said he had no idea who we were, Harry.”

Harry stopped on the street corner facing the red hand that told them it wasn’t yet safe to cross the street. He tilted his face into the evening sun, eyes closed as the breeze tossed his already messy hair. Ron and Hermione both heard the forced levity in his whispered answer.

“It wouldn’t be the first time Draco Malfoy looked one us in the face and said he didn’t know us. That he couldn’t be sure.”

Sometimes the three friends couldn’t help but laugh at their shared past. Other times, it seemed like holding back the desire to scream and cry at the unfairness of all they’d faced at such young ages strained at them like the weight of the world strained Atlas’ shoulders.

They all linked arms, Harry in the center, and as soon as the red hand switched to a little green man walked across the street.

+

Later that night, Drake waved goodbye to the sweet young man he’d shared dinner with. The brunette was a blind date Worthington and Vic had conspired to send him on. Roger had been perfectly sweet and kind, interested in Drake’s work and funny as he described his own.

Normally he was everything Drake looked for in a man, but as they sat together in the Italian restaurant enjoying coffee after their meal Drake could only think that his brown curls were too orderly, that his lack of a beard made him look too young. That the light tan of his skin, a shade lighter than Drake’s own frisbee-given tan wasn’t warm or brown enough. That his hazel eyes hadn’t been quite the right green.

So, he’d said goodbye, and turned down a second date before driving himself home. If he dreamed that night of the knowing gaze and small quirk of lips that’d seemed to live in his peripheral vision for the past two weeks, well. That was no one’s business but his own. His dreams had never hurt anyone, and if Vic didn’t know then she couldn’t lecture him about inappropriate crushes. He was fine.


	5. Interlude

#

“You’re foul! You’re positively foul in the worst possible way and I will not take criticism from anyone as foul as you are!”

“Oh, so you do _one_ tour of Europe to write about the dangers of drinking culture in the workplace and suddenly you think you can tell me how to run my brewery? And you thought I’d accept it?! More fool you, then!”

“I’m not saying I know how to run your brewery, you absolute vexatious pest, I’m saying you should change your marketing campaign. You brew beer, people will always drink beer, you don’t need to advertise it so prominently near places of business!”

“But my competitors will! People will always drink beer, but _it won’t be mine if they don’t know about it_!”

Blaise shook his head fondly as he listened in on Pansy and Greg’s argument from the kitchen. He had finished cutting and plating slices of their customary chocolate cake ages ago, but he knew better than to walk into that. He focused on setting forks on each plate. They’d all worked so hard to change after the war, to not play things so close to the vest and say what they really meant. So many had been lost without ever hearing what they meant to people. Still, the Slytherins did their best when a little tipsy in the privacy in each other’s living rooms.

“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this- where the fuck is Blaise? Blaise!”

He spelled the plates to levitate behind him, slotted the stems of three wine glasses to hang upside down between the fingers of his left hand, and grabbed the disgustingly expensive elfwine with his right before he made his way into the living room. He walked slowly, making sure none of the plates bumped into the walls or forks slipped to the ground as they floated behind him.

“Alright, alright, stop your hollering. I’m here. And this is my apartment, I’ll thank you to remember, and I’m allowed to be anywhere within it I please.”

He infused as much snobbery into his voice as possible, affecting a tone her hadn’t used since he and Pansy started writing for the Quibbler and Luna had said it made them sound like there were wockets in their throats. It got him the snorted laughter he’d wanted, and he waited as each of his friends grabbed their plates and their glass, glad the tension was easing up. They met up regularly enough that this was not the first time they’d had this argument, nor would it be the last, but it wasn’t the focus of this particular gathering. For all their growth in speaking plainly, they never discussed their reason for meeting this way every first week of June.

For five years, their best friend had wrangled away some personal time in the first week of June to bring them together and eat chocolate cake with their fingers and drink stupidly expensive elf-made wine from his family’s cellar. It wasn’t always exactly on his birthday, but it was within a week of it without fail. Until one year it wasn’t. All of them had known his springtime vanishing was coming, but they hadn’t expected it to be so thorough, so complete. They had a million questions and no answers.

The weather had gone warmer and warmer as any trails had grown colder and colder. And then one weekend meet-up Greg had shown up with cake and wine in hand. They hadn’t really discussed it. Pansy had deposited them in the kitchen before pulling out forks, saying that _he_ was the only one who’d really enjoyed eating the cake with his hands. They’d start that again when he came back.

They don’t discuss it now, either. They drink the entire bottle of wine between them but only have one slice of cake each. They laugh and talk about their jobs and then clean up, and if Greg tears up when he accidentally drops his plate and grumbles that he _hates_ forks, well. They don’t discuss that either.


	6. Clock Strikes Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few times in this chapter and the next Ron, Harry, and Hermione all refer to Drake as Draco or Malfoy both to his face and amongst themselves despite being told that isn’t his name. it doesn’t irritate him as much as their following him around does, but I wanted to warn in case that was a squick or trigger for anyone.

#

“Please, if you’ll just hold this scarf and see if it reminds you of anything. It’s in our old classmates house colors, and the green is so specific – the exact green of the shirt you have on now, and-”

“Look, I’ve been professional and told you how to get in touch with my company. I’ve told you nicely to stop following me around in my free time. Since you don’t seem to want to listen, I’m telling you again, as clearly as possible. Fuck. Off.

I am not your old classmate; your general creepiness has insured we’ll never be friends, and I am tired of seeing your desperately hopeful faces around every corner. Good-bye.”

Hermione stood on the edge of the curb on the balls of her feet, tension outlined in every limb of her very still body, not bothering to look at Ron and Harry close behind her in the parking lot. The three of them watched _Drake_ saunter through the front door of the book shop. They could all hear the little motion sensor ping faintly as the door swung shut behind him, announcing his entry.

The young woman at the register looked up at him and smiled serenely as she gestured towards a cart overstuffed with books. They couldn’t hear what Drake said to her or her response through the storefront glass, but whatever she said was accompanied by a wicked smirk and it pulled a full-bodied laugh out of Drake. He took hold of the cart and pushed it until he disappeared in the aisles.

“What a fucking wanker,” Ron ran a hand through his hair in disbelief, utterly shocked. “He really doesn’t give a shit; he hasn’t changed at all. Fucking hell, this is miserable. Dealing with _him_ is miserable!”

The fists that had been clenched at Hermione’s sides relaxed and just like that all the tension drained out of her body. Her muttered Evanesco vanished the scarf wandlessly. She slumped into herself until the line of her shoulders spelled defeat and turned to face the two men who were always behind her, ready to support her.

“I think…. I think we might’ve been wrong. Maybe… maybe that _isn’t_ Malfoy. Maybe we’ll never find Malfoy.” She fidgeted there, uncertain.

“Aw, Mione.” Ron pulled her into a hug, tucking her head under his chin. She curled her fists into the sides of his shirt and settled against her husband. “We all saw his pointy face. That’s definitely him! We just have to make him see reason. If we can’t appeal to human decency, since he seems to lack even a shred of it, we’ll bribe him. Or demand it of him. If necessary, we’ll go back to England and extradite him. Whatever it takes.”

“That man looks like him, and he’s certainly an arse but. He doesn’t act like Malfoy; he didn’t flinch when he saw us, he’s here living Muggle and doing quite well at it, he acts as if he has no idea what we’re going on about. Is the man in that book store even capable of doing what we need done?”

Her tone was all miserable frustration and Ron didn’t answer. The longer the silence stretched the more her question seemed to weigh them all down, until Harry couldn’t stand it any longer. They’d been patient and diplomatic and kind and a little bit stalker-ish and it had been fruitless. He knew in his bones that Drake Macaria was Draco Malfoy, just like he knew in his bones that he was Harry Potter. And he knew that no one could get under Draco’s skin like he could. Shoulders squared, he marched towards the door.

“Harry? Harry!”

“Just wait. I’ll get the fucking git.”

He moved quickly, wanting to get inside and in Draco’s face before Hermione or Ron could ask him to stop. He felt them pushing to catch up with him and wound his way through the store, looking in every aisle until he reached the back. Drake was knelt in front of the thrillers, slotting books onto the shelves and Harry moved to stand over him. Drake looked up and exhaled hard through his nose with narrowed eyes, an expression Harry had seen nearly every day for six years straight. Grinning down at the man, Harry cocked his head to the side; this might be even easier than expected.

“Do you just stare at all your customers?”

“May I help you, sir?” Drake pulled his vowels even wider than usual and pushed his words even closer than usual, the American accent sounding the most pronounced and affected it had since they found him in his office building nearly three weeks ago.

“Actually, you can,” Harry answered, pulling books off the cart. He thumbed through them without taking in a single written word before setting them haphazardly on the shelves around them. Drake shot up out of his crouch to snatch the books and put them back on the cart. 

“Sir, please don’t mess with the books I’ve yet to put away. You’ll throw off our inventory records.”

“So, you don’t mind if I look through the books already shelved then?” Harry stepped around Drake and the cart to get at the mysteries section to the right of the thrillers and started shuffling those books around. “As for you being helpful, I’d like to start with this forgetfulness act of yours. Now, I don’t want to be unfair-”

Harry cut off as Drake gave an agitated huff and lunged over to yank the book out of Harry’s hands and quickly set the few books he’d moved to rights and his alice band slipped backwards a little, though he didn’t seem to notice. Harry smiled and pivoted on his heel to face the other side of the aisle where mystery met supernatural suspense and start pulling at those. “Like I was saying, I don’t want to be unfair, so I’ll ask up front. Do you think you’ve maybe been Obliviated?”

Hermione and Ron both jumped where they stood, shocked that he’d asked so loudly. Hermione gasped, chastisement on the tip of her tongue until Ron leaned past her to peer at Drake. The man stood frozen for half a second too long before darting his eyes towards the front of the store. It seemed that no one’d overheard, and he immediately relaxed. He bit out an easy “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir, please leave me to my work” and crouched back down but they’d all seen his hesitation. 

He was worried about the Statute. Harry crouched down right beside him, as close as he possibly could be, with one thigh pressed into the small of Drake’s back and his other knee leaned against Drake’s, his thighs bracketing the blond man who refused to meet his eyes. That was fine. Harry didn’t need eye contact to rile Malfoy up. He just had to push a little harder.

“Ah. Worried I might’ve exposed us? Don’t worry, I wouldn’t let anyone blame you if I had. For all our rivalry I never did turn you over to the professors much, did I Malfoy? Just gave as good as I got, gave better than I got actually. You never could beat me, could you? You matched me pretty well though, yeah? Sometimes I kinda miss it.”

Drake was breathing heavier now but it was stuttered, like he’d run up four flights of stairs and was trying to hide it, so no one would know. He reached out to touch the books on the shelf in front of him without looking at what they were. Harry had him.

“Why won’t you look at me?” He reached out for the same four paperbacks Drake had his hand on. “Scared, Malfoy?” And pulled them all off the shelf and onto the ground.

“Dammit, Potter! Merlin and Morgana both, sod _off_!”

Cheeks ruddy with anger, Drake’s chest heaved as he stared at green eyes, so focused that he didn’t notice the way Hermione’s face collapsed in relief or Ron walking up to the front to wave off the cashier’s concern. Harry only grinned into his face.

“Potter, am I now? What happened to “sir”?”

Drake’s face went white as snow, as if someone had snapped and vanished all the blood from his cheeks. He composed his features into that patrician Malfoy mask Harry knew so well before he stood up, turned, and walked out of the aisle and out the back door. He moved so deliberately and so quickly that neither Hermione nor Harry realized he was leaving until the door was swinging shut behind him and they both jumped to follow. Ron pulled up the rear and stood by the door in case the cashier came to check what was happening despite the light Confundus he’d given her.

Even though Harry made it out the door first, Hermione was the one who stopped the blonde man stalking his way across the gravel employees’ lot towards a green Sonata with a firm grip on his arm.

“Come off it, Malfoy. We know it's you and we know you know us.”

“And? Why does what I know matter? Why are you here? Why have you been following me all over creation, interrupting my job, my hobbies, my volunteer work?”

“Shut up,” Ron scoffed from the doorway, “if you’d acknowledged us when we approached you the _first_ time, you’d already know the answer to all those questions.”

“It's because we need your help.” Hermione cut off whatever truly awful insult Malfoy was about to fling out in retaliation, determinedly pulling his attention back towards her with a shake of his arm before letting go. Ron was right, but they didn’t need Malfoy to admit that, they just needed him to agree to come back with them. “Have you heard about Hogwarts?”

“I haven’t heard anything about anything back in Wizarding Britain and I didn’t do whatever it is you’re upset about. May I please go?”

“We know you didn’t do it, git.” Harry rolled his eyes at the generally insufferable direction the conversation was taking.

“There’s a cursed… area that needs to be dealt with in the school.” Hermione continued as if none of them had said anything. “You didn’t leave many notes about Panafairό’s Box but Edgemoore said he remembered something you’d mentioned once, about how to adjust it so you it could be used on a house instead of just objects? We figured that’s how you cleansed out the Manor and we-”

“Wait.” Draco tilted his head slightly and looked at each of them in turn, both skeptical and discomfited. The wisps of his hair that had escaped his elastic hair band danced in the light breeze and for once he didn’t fixate on tucking them away. “You spoke to Edgemoore? He admitted I had anything to do with Panafairό’s Box?”

Hermione leaned forward, eyes alight. Mentioning that anyone was giving him credit had him hooked. She should’ve led with this, honestly. “He did. When we found the curse in Hogwarts, we went to him first and obviously he couldn’t help us, because it was your work and you’d kept it from him, but he admitted everything under a bit of pressure. He’s a fraud and a charlatan and he can’t assist anyone, but you can!”

Draco barked out a nervous, incredulous _ha_ and turned back towards his car. Harry’s jaw clenched as he swallowed his insults. Then, he remembered his insults were what had brought them as far as they’d gotten, loosened it.

“Don’t be an arse, Malfoy. You live here with all these Muggle Americans, acting like you’re reformed and care about people. It’s easy to have empathy with strangers who’ve done nothing to you; why don’t you put your money where your mouth is and come back to Scotland? Take the high road where people actually know you, yeah?”

Draco whirled around so fast that rocks spun out from under his feet and he was in Harry’s face before the dust he’d kicked up settled.

“Didn’t I tell you to _sod. off_? You think for one second anyone’s going to want me back in your precious Hogwarts? Back in Britain? It may be ten years since the end of The War but it’s only been five years since I left, and I remember what the populace was like. The vitriol, the anger. Why do I have to throw myself down on a sword to prove that the life I live here has value or merit? I don’t- I won’t! And you can take your high road and shove it up your ass. I’m not good to these people to prove a point, I’m good to them because it’s the _right thing to do_. Dick.”

Draco was vibrating with his anger; he was so much more intimidating now as a man, but Harry was a grown man too and he’d never backed down from Malfoy. Not over his friends, not over Quidditch, and he wasn’t about to start now with the only home he’d ever known at risk just because a schoolyard bully had a chip on his shoulder.

“Oh, fuck off. Been buying into your own press, have you? Big, bad, evil Draco, the littlest Death Eater? _No. One. Cares._ They don’t care! There is no anger, no vitriol.”

“I remember my trial, Potter-”

“The trial where _you_ got off with probation? That trial?”

“Because of _your_ testimony! They only let me go because their _Savior_ said that-”

“That you’d saved me from Snatchers? That you were just a kid? That you never killed anyone? So, what?! That’s not special treatment, that was my _testimony_ of the _facts_. I didn’t say any of that as a favor, I said it because it was the truth. And that’s all they took it as! Cassandra crying in the streets, man, you have _got_ to let go of this idea that I’m some overly famous society darling!”

Harry threw up his hands in exasperation before running one roughly through his own curls. Malfoy’d flinched backwards at his outburst, but Harry wasn’t done, and stepped forward into his space to prod him in the chest with a finger.

“You’re so caught up in what you think is happening, you’ve ignored what’s actually going on. You were convicted of conspiracy to commit murder against Albus Dumbledore because _that was the only law they could prove you’d broken._ Not as a favor to me! You were a prick and a bigot all through school but being raised to be intolerant and never questioning that upbringing isn’t illegal, it’s just awful. You and I both know Voldemort forced you to torture people, but everyone who could testify to your use of Unforgivables was dead or in jail themselves.

Hogwarts is a public school, not a government building, and while bringing your evil aunt and all her friends inside gave them space and opportunity to murder a bunch of _innocents_ ,” Draco cringed but Harry didn’t stop, “letting people through a door isn’t against the law either, even when it’s a door you made. And in the end, you chose not to kill anyone! What you did to Katie and to Ron were your only crimes, and those were accidents made under duress, and you were _underaged_ , so they put you on probation.

And that’s it! That’s all! As long as you served your community service and let them reform you no one cared! That’s why they let you sit for NEWTS. Everyone knew you worked with Edgemoore; anyone who bothered to think of you at all probably thought you’d become a Potions Master.”

Harry inhaled through his nose hard, willing himself to calm down. Malfoy had that calm mask on again, but his grey eyes were moving rapidly like he was dreaming awake. His left hand clenched and opened repeatedly as it brushed his hip, reaching reflexively for a wand that wasn’t there. Malfoy’s voice was low when he finally spoke.

“No… no one cares?”

“Not a single soul, Ferret.” Ron’s tone was light, but he wasn’t smiling. The three Gryffindors watched him warily, not sure what reaction they’d get when that message penetrated, and Malfoy came out of his stupor. Despite that caution, they were all caught off guard when he started to laugh, desperate little giggles that weren’t funny at all.

“No one cares. I could’ve stayed. I haven’t seen my nascent home in five fucking years, and you’re telling me that no one cares.”

“You could visit the Manor after we fix up Hogwarts, Malfoy.” Hermione kept her voice even and kind, aware that Malfoy was clearly teetering on the edge of a panic attack. “You just have to come back with us. Say you’ll help us, please.”

“I can’t.”

“Dammit, Malfoy-”

“No, Potter, I can’t. Maybe I could… is- Is Scrimgeour the Minister for Magic?”

“No, Malfoy,” Hermione stepped closer. “Kingsley Shacklebolt is.”

Harry cut in. “The Wizengamot forced an election about five years after the war, shortly after you fucked off here. They felt that society had built itself up enough to stably chose its government and Scrimgeour was only ever a provisional Minister. He lost his bid for reelection because his platform tended too far towards getting revenge and, as I’ve already mentioned, no one cared for that sort of thing anymore.”

“You’re telling me that the Wizarding populace of Britain felt they were done with punitive security measures that invaded their privacy, so they elected an Auror to the office of Minister?”

Hermione crossed her arms, uncomfortable and defensive. “Kingsley’s policies may not have totally centered social welfare, but they were more focused on it than anything Rufus had to say and he was more well-known than other candidates.”

Malfoy laughed incredulously, and then stopped and tilted his head straight backwards to stare at the sky. Silence stretched taut between the four young magicians. Hermione waited patiently for Malfoy to say something else. She could feel Ron and Harry growing restless and was gearing up to ask Malfoy to come with them again, before one of them could say something boneheaded, when Malfoy finally responded.

“He exiled me.” It was barely a whisper, sent straight up to the heavens, but all of them heard it. When Malfoy finally looked back down at each of them his eyes were full of tears that spilled down over the crest of his cheekbones. “Scrimgeour did.

He told mother and I when he came to the Manor after the hearing. That he’d worked with the Wizengamot to arrange a sentence that would please all the people who wanted peace and all those who wanted revenge. Five years of probation with the ever-present threat of Azkaban, and then they’d allow me to go into to exile. For my own safety, and to reassure the public.”

Harry felt his face twist with horror. He could see in his peripheral that Hermione’s had too, and he heard Ron’s grunt of agitation behind him. Scrimgeour absolutely would have manipulated the result of a hearing like that. Harry remembered how Malfoy had looked in court, way too thin and visibly haunted with purple bruises around his eyes and a limp in his gait, rushing to the floos to get back to his mother on house arrest. He would’ve believed whatever Rufus had told him, wouldn’t have thought to question it. Friendless as he seemed right after the war with all the Slytherins scattered and licking their wounds, there was no one he could’ve told but Narcissa. And she’d passed away two years into her sentence. Draco continued on, staring at them unseeing.

“The day after my probation ended, they came to the Manor. I was already packed and waiting for them to take me. They brought me to New York, to MACUSA headquarters, and got all my records transferred to their American equivalents. They highly encouraged me to give up my British citizenship and in exchange gave me a few thousand Galleons. I used the money to buy Muggle documentation I needed to enroll in college and moved out here. I can’t go back. It’s all warded against me. I can’t even get into Muggle Britain; when the company had a retreat in Wales I flew in, and as soon as the plane touched down I was immediately apparated back to New York. I had to claim I got sick in Customs and was sent back here. My story didn’t make any sense and I Confunded everyone involved when they came home.

If there was a way I could help– maybe I could just show you… no. The way to adjust the spell requires I personally work the arithmancy at the physical location that needs the adjustment, or that you figure it out yourselves and work the arithmancy. I created it that way to protect the Manor, and in case Edgemoore ever found my notes. I- I’m sorry, but…no one cares. I–”

Draco turned and ran for his car. The engine turned over before any of them could call out or stop him, and then he shot forward, peeling out of the lot.

Harry pulled the collar of his shirt up over his nose to block the dust and grit that floated through the air in Draco’s wake. Somehow, he felt that his throat was too coated to breathe easily anyway.

Ron walked forward and wrapped an arm around Hermione, letting the door to the shop swing fully shut.

“I’d like to point out that for all the sighting him on his coworkers’ and associates’ social media we did to locate him, we never did find out where Ferret lives.”

He grimaced.

“At this point, I don’t really think we ought to.”


	7. Chamomile Lavender Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few times in this chapter Ron, Harry, and Hermione all refer to Drake as Draco or Malfoy both to his face and amongst themselves despite being told that isn’t his name. it doesn’t irritate him as much as their following him around does, but I wanted to warn in case that was a squick or trigger for anyone.
> 
> title from Shrinking Violets by PHOX

#

“So, we were all off. Either the Ministry got its wires crossed in the aftermath of The War or it was pure corruption at work from Scrimgeour. We’ll fix it, yeah?”

“Right, Mione, we’ll fix it. I’ll help you with clearing up the red tape, and soon as that’s settled we’ll go back to focusing on Malfoy himself. He obviously misses home, so it shouldn’t be hard once it’s all right and legal again.”

Harry nodded along earnestly with Ron, but Hermione still wouldn’t look at either of them.

“Of course, you’re both right, but it's more than that. It’s that we never considered this.” And then she was up, moving to en-suite to wipe the tears off her face. “Honestly, you two,” she pulled all of her twists back with a headband snatched from the end table and pushed her sleeves up before turning away from the mirror to look them in their eyes instead of at their reflections, “ _When_ did we get so comfortable with these institutions? Why did we even agree to follow Malfoy here? The Ministry hasn’t changed!

And I think that’s harder for me to realize than you two because I work there. So you’re a professor and you’re a business owner and your government lied to you a little bit. That’s not new, or even that exciting compared to the rest of our lives. But I’m there every day, I come to dinner and drinks bemoaning their selective bureaucracy and backroom deals constantly.

How did we miss this? How did I?”

Ron opened his arms where he sat and she moved to him, finally ready to accept his comfort. From his vantage on the floor Harry continued to watch. She was right, of course, though he personally thought she was being too hard on herself. He’d spent months being Undesirable #1, but a little Dark Lord vanquishing and a lot of therapy later there he was again, trusting a system that had never truly valued him. They’d all lost the plot, but the only thing for it was to fix the wrong that had been done to Malfoy and hope he was willing to return the kindness.

He’d said he wanted to help, but given how aggressive they’d been Harry wasn’t sure that would still be the case after he calmed down. A pillow to the side of the head cut off that train of thought quickly, and he looked back up at his friends to see Ron’s arm flapping at him.

“Come on, Harry, I’ve been waving at you to come join this bloody hug fest forever now. Get up here and reaffirm our bond as heroes and friends already, dammit.”

There was a gleam in his blue eyes even as he bitched and a smile on Hermione’s face where she was tucked into his shoulder. Harry clambered up onto the bed to wrap his arms around them both. They would clean up the Ministry’s mess, and save Hogwarts, and do Malfoy a huge favor in the process. Honestly, by now they were old hat at all three goals. Harry found he wasn’t worried at all.

+

The next day saw Harry walking on his own to a small local library he’d noticed during his internet dive into Malfoy’s new life as Drake Macaria. It was a special collections library, Muggle of course, but full of old first editions and rare works. Harry had made his name in the field of Ancient Runes by finishing old partial alphabets and translating texts no one had read in centuries. All of his contemporaries were desperate to know how he did it, and this was his secret answer. Muggle texts. Before the Statute, before wizarding and non-magical folk had officially split, their lives and records had been the same. It seemed obvious to Harry that some of the translation clues would be found in non-magical sources, but he was in no rush to share that epiphany just yet.

While Hermione began the process of having her contacts in the Ministry find the trail of Malfoy’s exile to reverse it, Harry intended to do a little personal research. He hadn’t been sure he’d have time to visit the library and it was a welcome use of his time while Ron supported his wife and tempered her inevitable frustration.

Tucked behind an old theater, the library had only one window in the front, and the tempered glass was opaque so it couldn’t be seen through. Probably to protect the documents inside Harry thought with approval. He quickly entered the door and found himself in a lobby with a receptionist whose desk held only a guest sign in book, a laptop, and a name plate that said Larissa. He handed over his drivers’ license and added his name to the list after the receptionist gestured to it.

“Good morning, non-library members sign in here. You’re from England, Mr. Potter?”

“Hello, Larissa. Please, call me Harry; and yes, I am. I don’t need to be a member of the library to enter alone, do I? Are there special restrictions?” Harry couldn’t remember seeing anything to that effect on the library website, but special collections often had finicky rules for good reason. Not that any such rules would stop him, but he was already thinking through the effort of conjuring a library card and creating a glamor to match.

“Well then, Harry, you don’t need to be a member to enter or use the library, but you will need to leave your ID here as collateral. If you want to scan and print anything for your personal records, you’ll need to pay a fee – 10 cents per page in black and white, 25 cents per page for color. Flag down myself or Joey for assistance with that. You don’t have a bag with you, which is great as they aren’t allowed inside either. There’s notepads and pencils on a table just inside this door to your left here for any notetaking you need to do; those are, of course, free.”

Harry nodded his thanks and made his way inside the heavy wooden doors to his left. The minute he stepped inside the quiet room he knew he’d made a perfect choice. The floor to ceiling shelves were made of a dark wood, and scattered throughout the room were slanted desks, perfect for holding manuscripts and writing, though every desk he could see was empty. There was a staircase to his immediate right that led to the balcony that ringed the room and provided access to the upper levels of the selves, and soft lamps lit every corner of the space without damaging any of that old paper. To his left sat another worker at a small desk, most likely Joey, who waved a hand in his direction without looking up from the book he was reading.

He walked forward, peeking through the stacks and getting his bearings for what topics and tests were on offer. It was only one he looked in the last corner of the room, behind the almanacs that he found an occupied desk. Any other day he’d have left the other scholars alone with their work, as he liked to be, but this day he found himself frozen, contemplative. There at the desk, with only an illuminated book in front of him, was the man Harry had crossed an ocean and a country to find. The lights of the one lamp added an ethereal glow to Malfoy’s white blond hair and made the warm color of his cheeks seem like he was glowing from within. He looked stately, intellectual. And unbearably sad.

The longer Harry stood there watching him, the more apparent it became that Malfoy was not reading the book in front of him, only staring at the page. Decision made, Harry walked forward and pulled up a chair.

“Hello, Malfoy.”

“Drake.” Malfoy didn’t look up at Harry with his response, and despite the clipped shortness of his tone the accent was still very American.

“Right then, _Drake_. You know you don’t have to keep putting on that accent? We all know who we all are.”

“I’m not “putting on” anything, Potter, I’ve lived here for five years. Gone to school, gone to work, made friends; this is just how I speak most days now. If I sounded at all English last time we spoke it was because hearing the three of you made it come back.”

He sighed as he shut the tome in front of him, allowing Harry to finally glimpse the cover and see that it was a book of fairy tales. Malfoy- Drake turned to face him, exhaustion clear in his expression.

“How did you find me again? And what could you possibly have been hoping to accomplish here? Now?”

Harry hurriedly waved his hands in front of him before extending them slightly in a gesture of peace.

“I didn’t!”

They both flinched at the volume of Harry’s voice, and then he continued in a low whisper, “I’m the Ancient Runes professor at Hogwarts. Reading dusty, old, rare manuscripts is what I do for fun now. I came here to get out of Ron and Hermione’s hair; I swear I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“Fine, so you weren’t expecting to see me. Why did you sit down once you did? It’s been five years since we last honestly saw each other, over ten since we last really spoke. Are old habits _really_ so strong that you just had to come antagonize me?”

“You know as well as I do you did more antagonizing than I ever did, Drake.”

Harry stared the other man down, expecting some denial. He was surprised to get a slight quirk of Drake’s mouth, like he was fighting a smile tucked into its corner, and a nod of acquiescence.

“Fair, I’ll acknowledge it, Potter.”

Harry scrunched his nose as he held back his own pleased smile.

“And I came to sit with you to apologize.” Harry hadn’t known that was why he sat down, but as soon as he said it, it felt right. The rush he got from Malfoy’s surprised face made his conviction even more certain.

“Obviously none of us knew that you’d been exiled, but that doesn’t excuse how we followed you around town. More, it doesn’t excuse the things I said to you about your Muggle friends. I’m sorry; it was a dickhead thing to say. And I apologize for disrupting the book shop. If I damaged any of the inventory trying to needle you just write me up an invoice for it. I work with scrolls mostly now, but that’s no reason to disrespect books. Especially books in a place you love. And Hermione works in the Ministry, and we’re going to get that exile overturned because it was wrong and unlawful, and you deserve to be able to visit your home at your leisure”

He knew his apology was rambling, but he meant every word and the longer he spoke the more Drake leaned forward so his hair hung around the sides of his alice band to cover his face. It was too short to totally hide the flush in his cheeks though, and as Harry watched him regain his composure, he felt suddenly blindsided by how much he’d missed this. Missed getting a reaction out of Malfoy, missed verbally sparring with the man. He’d felt it when they’d cornered him behind the bookstore, awful as that had gone, and he felt it again there in the quiet of the library.

It was a shocking thing to realize, because none of their prior fights were at all positive or fond memories.

“Alright, alright, Potter. I forgive you, and your friends. Don’t go getting all weepy-eyed on me just because for once I was right and you truly were The Dick Who Lived To Annoy Me.”

The small smile on his face belied the insult in his words, and Harry didn’t even flinch when Drake reached out to lightly punch him in the shoulder.

“I should’ve known my past would pop up someday. I just didn’t expect _this_ , didn’t expect you three hiding behind every pillar and in every potted plant like a chase montage between the masked villain and the meddling kids. I didn’t handle it well.”

 _This is what it could have been,_ Harry realized. _If his parents hadn’t raised him to be a little shit, if he hadn’t insulted Hagrid before I even knew his name, if there’d been no war, if we’d just been boys. If we’d been friends._

“And I’d like to apologize again,” Drake continued, remorse obvious and face nervous. “I know I sent you a letter years ago repenting for all of the bullying and cruelty but having been stranded in a world I didn’t know with no family, having to make new friends and rebuild my life… it drives home how particularly awful I was to you. I meant every word of my earlier apology, and I feel like I mean it even more now. I’m sorry, Potter.”

“And I forgive you. I forgave you back then, though you weren’t around anymore to hear me say it. Apology accepted, Drake.”

The two stared at each other, content. A warmth began growing in his chest and Harry realized he was starting to feel a fondness creeping up. The new affection must have shown in his gaze, because Drake suddenly looked up and away, his cheeks pinking lightly. The silence between them was still comfortable but Harry was urgently aware that they weren’t very close, and the silence could grow awkward at any moment.

“Well, Drake.” Harry stood up abruptly. “Would you mind showing me around this wonderful library of yours? I sort of just showed up because Hermione is a bit scary when she’s yelling at the Ministry, and I came here without a plan.”

He held out his hand to pull his companion out of his seat. Drake peered up at him, eyebrows arched as if to ask if he realized what he was doing. Harry’s own eyebrow cocked to say that not only did he realize what he was doing, but that the parallel was intentional. That it was a reverse do-over. That they were different people now, and that this Drake who ran with dogs from the humane society and treated secondhand books with same reverence he gave rare documents and played Ultimate Frisbee was a man Harry wanted to know. He’d given that initial rejection, and years later he still felt he could tell the wrong sort for himself.

When Drake drawled _Sure, Potter_ in that old familiar posh tone of voice and clasped his hand to stand up before leading him into the stacks without letting go, Harry couldn’t help but be certain that this time, this blonde man was absolutely right.

+

“Harry, are you running off again?”

He cringed to a stop, one hand on the door knob ready to pull it open, the other still tapping at the screen of his phone to finish his text. Harry read over the message again to be sure it was correct, tagged a quick _“held up talking to Ron but omw”_ to the end, hit send, stuffed the phone into his back pocket and looked up to see Ron standing in the middle of the living area of the hotel room with his arms full of scrolls, staring at him. Harry expected that.

Less expected was that Ron’s expression was not so much shocked disbelief at Harry leaving again as it was smug. Completely unexpected was Hermione leaning against the door frame to the bedroom behind Ron, smirking the way she did whenever she was proven correct about something.

“I told you, Ron. He’s off to see Draco again.”

Harry frowned. “Call him Drake.”

Ron started to grin, and Harry’s heart clenched with affection. He’d never seen such a Gred and Forge expression (excepting on the faces of Gred and Forge themselves). Hermione’s smirk was growing more and more wicked by the second, the influence of years spent in the same Common Room tilting it rakishly. The sight was familiar and comforting. It was also a good warning to nip whatever that was in the bud before the pair of them really got going.

“Look, I know I should be helping to look for precedent to overturn Malfoy’s exile and I will! It’s just also important that we find out everything we can about the circumstances surrounding his exile in the first place so we can prove it happened illegally, and I think talking to him can help with that.

That’s obviously a hard topic for him, so we’re building up to it. Slow-like, and careful. You know me, Patient Potter.” Harry edged backwards slowly, one hand reaching for the door behind him.

When had Hermione moved closer to be shoulder to shoulder with Ron? He’d been watching the both of them. Their smiles were getting softer, more indulgent, and it was _time to go_. Harry wasn’t ready to talk about his feelings yet. For all his openly, ah, _focused_ looking during Frisbee matches and evening jogs, he hadn’t quite decided what was happening between him and Drake.

“Harry…” Hermione started.

“And as an alum of his university, he still has access to his school’s library and he swears there’s real Delphic oracular scrolls in there that only magic folk can see and he’s promised to show me so I’m going to do that and I’ll be back later, honest.”

Harry was halfway into the hall, only his head still in their hotel room as he closed the door behind him still talking fast.

And then the door was shut, and he was sprinting down the hall to the stairwell. He bypassed the bank of elevators without pause and started down the flights to the first level where Drake was waiting. Not because he thought his friends might be chasing him; he trusted that they knew him well enough to know when to give him space.

He was running because his feet couldn’t carry him fast enough to his companion for the day, and apparating into a lobby full of Muggles wasn’t on.

He couldn’t put words to his feelings just yet, and that had absolutely no bearing on the way they swelled up in his ribcage and propelled him forwards.

Two more flights, one more, out that door there and past the concierge desk with a wave. He stormed up to the front, stopped short for the slow mechanical sliding door to clear his way, and gathered his breath. Harry walked outside calmly to a mostly empty lot, only a few cars parked way off to the left under a bank of trees.

“Potter.”

And there to his right stood Drake Macaria, in dark wash straight leg jeans and a white v neck with his fists shoved into the pockets of his champagne colored cardigan. The faint hint of gold in his sweater complimented the color in his skin and highlighted the white of his hair that hung loose around his face. The alice band was gone for once, and of course as soon as Harry had the thought a breeze seemed to pick up out of nowhere. It pushed away the clouds and left Drake standing in a god finger of light, windswept white blond locks flowing.

Drake gave him that same smirk he’d given him for years, and then broke into a snorting laughter. Harry’s daze halted long enough for him to realize that wind had been quite localized, and that there was no reason for the sun to be shining down when they stood under the awning of the vehicle drop off area..

“Really, Macaria? Wandless charms to make yourself look better? Could you be any more dramatic?”

Harry shoved at his friend, and before he could draw his arm back found Drake’s arm looped with his at the crook of their elbows.

“You know I’ve always like to make an impressive entrance, Potter. Now let’s hurry, before the sun remembers just how fuckin hot it’s supposed to be.”

He let himself be dragged along, taking in everything in town that Drake pointed out to him as they walked and enjoying the mid-morning air. Maybe one day he could take Drake through London, or the newer parts of Diagon Alley and return the favor. The thought made him smile harder and he loosened his arm from Drake’s to wrap it around the leaner man’s waist. Macaria moved easily, tucking himself into Harry’s side and continuing to point without a pause.

It was going to be an exceptionally good day.


	8. Let Him Know Its Flood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from _The Prophet_ , “On Friendship” by Kahlil Gibran. Particularly the lines
> 
> And let your best be for your friend. / If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.)

#

The quick double vibration of Drake’s text notification buzzed in his jeans, and his hand flicked to pull it out before his brain caught up and gave him pause. Victoria had called him 20 minutes ago to say she was on her way to the lake he’d asked to meet at, and he knew she didn’t text while she drove. He was sitting on the hood of his car, parked alone in the lot, so it couldn’t be her texting to say she’d arrive and ask where he was.

That meant it was Potter.

Potter, whom he hadn’t spoken to in the past five days, ever since he’d asked for space to think a few things out. Whom he hadn’t seen in the past seven days, ever since he’d turned down Worth’s offer for dinner only to have his friend respond _You’re gonna have to introduce me to this boyfriend you’re hiding one of these days; I’d like to shake his hand for making you smile like this._

But tomorrow would be a week and day since they’d had dinner, nearly a week since they’d last spoken, and for all his thinking he hadn’t come to any kind of conclusion. He’d only gone about his routine, staring off into space or— occasionally— staring at his phone. Potter’d been so decent, not making a fuss about leaving him be and only asking if he could still text sometimes, whenever he saw something he wanted to share.

_“It’ll give us stuff to talk about, when you’re ready to talk again. You don’t have to respond. Only, I think of you so often these days; who else am I going to send a leaf that looks like a cat to? And I’ll keep you up to date on the exile reversal, too, of course! If it’s okay, no worries if not.”_

He scowled at the sky as his phone gave its usual reminder buzz, in case he had accidentally missed the first notification. Just like him, to tell Potter yes and then not know what to do with the attention. How could he have ever craved this when he was younger? Just then, Vic’s car roared into the parking lot and he hopped down to the asphalt to greet her, choosing to ignore the small voice in his heart saying he was still craving Potter’s attention now, no matter that having it scared him so.

Vic pulled a massive blue and white gingham blanket from her back seat and then led him to the lakeside without a word. She locked the doors of her car over her shoulder with the fob and then shook the blanket out. Drake sat down first and she curled up beside him, head rested against his shoulder. Her physical presence was grounding; cuddling always helped him focus in. Almost unconsciously his breathing synced with the small waves the wind made on the lake and he knew he had to speak. Trying to work things over in his own head hadn’t helped at all and he was beginning to miss Potter terribly.

Which was ridiculous; it’d only been seven days.

“Vic? Do you remember the first time we came to this lake?”

“Yeah,” she hummed in reply. “Somehow you made it to 24 years old without ever using a can opener, and when I sent you to my kitchen to get a bowl of fruit cocktail you managed to dent two cans of it and explode a third.”

“Those cans were defective and fruit’s meant to be eaten fresh anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, you said the same thing back then, though your stuffy “God save the Queen” accent was much thicker at the time.”

His revenge was swift but she was faster, and she managed to laughingly twist away from his finger jabbing to poke her side. They giggled as they settled back into each other.

“But snobby as you sounded you also sounded frustrated, and embarrassed, and angry. And I didn’t know where you’d come from or why you were alone all the way out here in the American southwest, but I knew you needed to get out of your own head and relaxed.”

Drake sighed at the memory; five years ago, it had felt like all his effort to get through his probation had been for nothing. That he’d worked so hard for Edgemoore and grieved his mother and permanently shut the door in his heart on his friends and his home only to make it to America and die anyway. Getting into university had been rough even with the correct forged documentation, his part time job at the diner had been grueling, his apartment had been small and cramped and moldy, and his classmates hadn’t cared a whit about him or his life.

That inconspicuousness had felt like a blessing at first, and quickly became the weight of the world in his gut. He’d been _lonely_ and utterly alone. Thomas had been a fellow waiter who he liked but didn’t know that well yet, and it would be another month before he started the internship that gave him Worthington. What a boon he’d felt it was when two years into his new solitary life he’d finally, through a fortuitous study group, met sociable, knowledgeable Victoria.

She’d seemed like the door to a real life and human connections, if only he could convince her he was a good friend to have and to introduce around. Like someone he could talk to. And then that damnable fruit cocktail in a can wouldn’t open; he’d dented one and another and tried to use wandless magic on the third and when it flew apart, he’d saw all his chances at not being That Weird English Bloke go with it.

“You were friendly with Thomas by then,” Victoria continued, “but I didn’t know that, and I’d never seen you speak to anyone else. It was obvious your self-esteem was shot, and I was worried, but I was also 24 and sort of ignorant. So, I grabbed the bottle of moonshine I hid behind my cereal, dragged you out to my car, and drove and drove till we were far away from the mess you’d made. Till we were here.”

“I feel we came dangerously close to drinking ourselves blind that night.”

“ _You_ came dangerously close to losing your sight to methyl alcohol poisoning. _I_ had two shots and then chugged a bottle of water so I could drive us home again when you were done panicking.”

Drake leaned his head against hers and watched the sun go down warm and orange over the water. Crickets he couldn’t see sang and sang until he found his courage again.

“I also told you quite a lot of things that night that I’ve never told anyone else. Not Tom or Worth. Things about my home.”

“That it was insular and close knit? That you made a simple mistake and they’d punished you and then instead of moving on cast you out forever? I remember something of the sort.”

“Hey,” Drake chided, “I don’t think I was that jaded when I said it, nor did I minimize what I did. It was pretty fuckin bad. And I’m pretty sure I mentioned that the Being Cast Out was part of the punishment.”

“And since then I’ve gotten to know you and you’re a wonderful man and I’ve decided the punishment was too harsh.”

“Because you like me, you genuinely believe that the punishment I can’t elaborate on for the crime I’m definitely guilty of that I can’t describe to you was too harsh?”

“Yes. Keep up.”

She was dead serious, and Drake couldn’t help but smile. He had no idea what he’d done to earn such a good person in his corner.

“Well, you’re not totally wrong. About the severity of the punishment, that is. Worth mentioned to me that he thinks I have a secret boyfriend, and I know that if he’s noticed you’ve definitely noticed.”

“Weird segue to a new topic, but yes, I have noticed you avoiding the blind dates I offer and going out to eat without anyone we know and the smiling at your phone and the singing to yourself and the –”

“I do not sing.”

“You were singing. Though you haven’t been lately.”

Drake fidgeted on the blanket, jostling Vic’s head from its resting spot.

“That’s because my segue wasn’t a segue at all. I was… something of an expert in one very obscure part of my community back in England. It didn’t matter much back then, but something’s come up and now they desperately want my expertise. When more interested parties went looking to see where I’d got to, they found me here.

My ousting wasn’t a unanimous choice like I had thought, and apparently everyone’s believed I just decided to leave all these years. The, ah, legal barriers that prevent my return are well and truly on the books, but snuck in there, and the people who came to find me are trying to get them rooted out so I can go back. And maybe – perhaps – possibly, one of those people is an old schoolyard rival of mine who’s potentially grown into a fine young man whom I may have hypothetically accidentally begun seeing recently.”

Victoria stared down his profile in silence, but Drake kept his gaze on the fading horizon. He had to hand it to her, her glare was formidable and Worth or Tom would’ve broken immediately under its weight. Worth and Tom hadn’t ever lived with a Dark Lord and his soul magic pet snake of death.

“Is he good to you?”

It was only a whisper, and when Drake found he couldn’t return it audibly he nodded his answer instead.

“Do you want whatever this thing that’s starting between you to continue?”

Another nod.

“Then what’s the problem, babe?”

Victoria scratched lightly at the short hairs at the nape of his neck and he leaned into the touch, taking strength from her physical comfort.

“The problem is, even if they fix the legal barriers… I don’t know that I want to go back. Not to be their expert, not for a permanent move, not for a visit. I just – I gave up on that home years ago. I came here and I made a new home, with new people I love.” He wrapped an arm around her, knocking her hand from his neck but pulling her closer nonetheless.

“I want to do the right thing. I want to be selfless and brave, like he… like Harry is. But Father died while I was stuck here, and I couldn’t even go home to bury him in my family’s cemetery. I’ve missed birthdays and weddings probably, I’ve missed my rightful home, I’ve had no news or connection for five years. If a child had been born the night I left England, they would be in grade school by now, Vic.

And no one who _could_ come find me bothered to even try until they needed my skills. Not _me_. If another person had had the knowledge I have then no one would’ve ever noticed that something wasn’t right about my disappearance. And now they say at the end of the month I should be good to go.

Three weeks of red tape and bureaucracy to clean up five years of missing home like a lost limb. I don’t know how to process all that emotion. And I’m scared to think about it. I’m scared to not think about it. I’m scared that I might just fuck around and fall in love with a boy I’ve been drawn to since I was 11. I’m scared that’ll he love me back, and then he’ll be disappointed when I don’t want to immediately drop everything and return. Not even to help. And he’ll think I’m the same old selfish jerk I always was, and he’ll regret trusting me. I like who I’ve grown to be here, and I’m scared I’ll go regress if get back to England.”

Victoria wiped at his cheeks. He hadn’t realized he’d started crying but now he could feel the tightness under the salt tracks. They snuggled together and sat out in the evening lake air for at least another half hour and he basked in the freedom of sharing his thoughts out loud without fear of shame or judgment.

They eventually made their way back to their vehicles and hugged good-bye. Drake stood in between their cars, watching Vic buckle up and turn the key in the ignition, just to be safe. When her engine came to life he turned towards his Sonata until the sound of his own name made him pause. He pivoted back to her wound down window to see she was smiling at him gently.

“Everything you said to me. Just say it Harry. If he’s half as good as you say he is and he’s worth a fourth of the effort you’ve spent on him these past few weeks, then he’ll understand, and he won’t be angry with you for it.

And if he’s not that good, I’ll end his shit and then come spoon feed you ice cream myself.”

“Alright, alright. Text me when you’ve made it home safely. And thank you, for coming to talk to me. You’re the only one I’ve ever told about my birth home, and if you hadn’t been available I’d’ve just spiraled for a few more days before doing something reckless.”

He laughed at himself and at her sticking her tongue out at him. Once she was gone, red tail lights fading away, he took his phone out of his jeans and climbed into his own car. The earlier text from Harry was a picture of a display stand of soft bean-stuffed toys in a store. There was a white dragon toy with golden wings in the center of the image. The message below it only said _I was thinking about you, and then there you were!_

He wasn’t ready to tell Harry everything he’d told Vic yet, not in detail, but he was tired of missing him. Lower lip caught in his teeth he tapped out a belated reply.

_Thank you for being so good to me. I’m coming to terms with the things I needed to work through. Would you maybe like to meet up this weekend for smoothies or something, maybe around 11am on Saturday? It’s fine, if not._

He’d hardly set the phone down and reached for the key hanging in the ignition before his phone buzzed that he’d gotten a response. He smiled and started the car. The text preview that had flashed across the screen made his heart pound; Harry needed hardly any effort to move him, to make him feel. It was still scary, but now Drake could feel a curl of thrill shot through the fear, and he drove home singing to every song that came on the radio.

_From: Harry at 9:48 pm - Yes! I’ll be as good as you want me to be for as long as you’ll allow me, Drake. I’m rather interested in that smoothie place you pointed out near the library of your alma mater that one time? I can meet you there at 11; I’m excited to see you, like always._

+

Drake deliberately and angrily pushed his grocery cart down the cereal aisle. The back-left wheel was gummed up with something and it wasn’t spinning like it ought‘ve been, getting caught every four rotations or so and dragging. It was a normal sort of inconvenience that he put up with because he only needed the cart to get the 15 can cases of sparkling water he wanted to the checkout lanes. This was only meant to be a quick stop before he drove up to his old university to meet up with Harry.

If he’d been in the store for a full week’s worth of shopping, he’d have switched it out— Or maybe he wouldn’t’ve, because full grocery list or not he hadn’t stopped moving since he got out of his car in the parking lot, trying to avoid looking at the tall red head behind him.

Even with a full list, Drake would’ve faced forward and marched on to avoid whatever awkward confrontation Weasley wanted to have. The wheel screamed as it dragged across the floor. Magic could fix this. He could cast a muffling charm around the wheel, banish the cart, stun the mule-stubborn fuck dogging his footsteps, apparate away if he really wanted. He let himself have that thought, held it comfortingly close for a second, and then pushed it away.

He stopped at the end of the aisle, distracted by a coupon someone else had tucked beneath a larger box of his favorite brand than he normally went for, and he was half way through his pros and cons mental debate of having too much cereal and risking it going stale in the face of 45¢ off when Weasley decided to speak without being acknowledged.

“Look, Malfoy—“

“Macaria.”

“ _Drake_.” 

Drake cringed even as he glared, but he didn’t correct him. This was The States after all.

“Ronald.”

That only made the Gryffindor jut his chin out obstinately. Whatever he wanted to say, it was already a waste, and the only thing that kept Drake from rolling his eyes and dragging his cart away with its stuck wheel squealing was the understanding that Weasley would continue to follow him till he’d said his piece. He visibly forced himself to release the tension in his body and relax before looking the other young man in the eye. He really didn’t want to do this; and especially not before he’d even had the chance to see Harry in person again and clear the air between them.

“I have things to buy and I know you probably don’t want to be talking to me anymore than I want to be listening to you so please, say whatever it is and go. You went to this trouble to find me here in the first place, so let’s have it.”

Comfort bred comfort, and suddenly Weasley appeared a whole head shorter as he slouched next to the shelf of store brand frosted Wheatie-O’s.

“I know you feel abandoned by our world, and you most likely don’t really want to go back, and at the moment you couldn’t even if you did want to. We’re working on a way to change that last bit so you can have the freedom to change your mind on that second thing.”

Weasley peered at him closely from under his fringe. Drake felt like there was something oddly insightful in that gaze, more so than he’d been used to seeing from Weasley. “And I know Harry’s been spending a lot of time with you trying to change your thoughts on that second thing while Hermione and I work on the last bit.”

Ah, and there it was. Drake let his eyes flutter shut so he didn’t have to see that probing gaze anymore. This too, magic would fix this too. But he wasn’t using magic, not really. He hadn’t used more than a light wandless breeze charm since the time he Confunded his co-workers and then panicked, worried a trace would spotlight him for breaking the Statute. He didn’t want to say anything awful, so he could only hope that Weasley had matured enough in the last ten years to surprise him.

Maybe not say that thing Drake just knew he was about to say anyway. Weasley had always been good at chess, hadn’t he? Maybe he’d recognize what a bad move this would be. Maybe he would shut up and leave, and Draco could get the sparkling water Worth always ribbed him for drinking, and they would both very carefully not mention this encounter to Granger-Weasley or Potter, and he would take Potter out for smoothies, and then they’d all fuck off back to England, and sometimes Potter would write, and—

“Drake!” 

He refocused on the scowling face in front of him.

“As I was saying, Harry thinks he might be able to really convince you to come back, if we can reverse the other stuff. More than that, he wants you to come back and he thinks you might, deep down, want to come back too. He’s getting his hopes up over you, and I swear if you hurt—”

“Shut up, Weasley, shut up. Help me, Hecate at the crossroads, if you finish that thought I will shatter the nearest jar of pickles and drag the brine-drenched glass across your throat.” 

Drake hardly recognized his own voice, gravel as it was, and he took Weasley’s moment of surprise to calm himself. He had years’ worth of angst and anger and hurt roiling inside him that he’d thought he’d let go of when he talked with Vic. Clearly not the case, and while he was going to enjoy this deserved tongue-lashing he didn’t want to go too far in his anger.

“I was wrong, okay? I placed myself in positions where people regularly could and did take advantage of me. I’ve escaped that. I’ve worked too hard to drag myself out of the mire into something resembling self-respect to let you stand here and threaten my person or my career over some mild attraction between Potter and I just because he’s your friend.

Potter might be sweet, but I learned my lesson in The War. I’ll be damned before I ever let myself be surrounded by and manipulated by people who hate me because of my affection for one individual ever again. I lost everything doing that shit for my mother and if you think I’m going to put up with this from you? Over Potter? Then you’re stupider than I ever took you for.”

“Put that box of cereal down before you rip it apart, Drake. And take a fucking breath sometimes. I’m not here to be the overprotective brother who hassles you for being interested.” 

Weasley’s gaze was far too soft around the edges as he pried the box from Draco’s hands and set it back on the shelf. “I’m just concerned because I know the history between you and Harry, and he’s been through a lot of pain.”

Drake snorted at that. 

“Like I haven’t?”

He turned on his heel and walked away, intent on abandoning Weasley, the conversation, and his ridiculous shrieking cart. He barely made it several paces before the stuttered scream of the wheel started dragging behind him. Right. Stubborn sixth of seven children. Of course, he was still talking.

“You have, Malfoy. And that’s why I had this exact conversation with Harry before I came to find you.”

Drake stopped, so surprised he forgot to snipe about Weasley not using his alias. His shoulders tensed up as he felt the solid presence filling the space behind him and warm hands rest on his shoulders turning him around. He looked away from the determined blue eyes assessing him.

“You’ve got a job and hobbies far removed from everything you’ve ever known and you got a handful of acquaintances who can’t even begin to know half of what you’ve overcome or who you really are. And you need to eat more— you look far too thin.

All it takes is one careless word, one thoughtless look, and you and Harry clash like steel against flint. For all the strength you both have you’re each way too fragile for that, which is why I warned him, like I’m warning you now. Don’t hurt him. Be gentle. Think three times before you say anything until whatever it is you two decide to be is more settled, durable.”

Drake didn’t know what to say to any of that. Fortunately, Weasley didn’t seem to need a response because he was already walking away, leaving Drake to fight back the sting of tears gathering behind his eyes over being so clearly seen. He shuffled over to his cart and gripped the handle bar, trying to balance himself.

“Oi, Macaria!”

He looked up at the call of his last name to see Weasley standing at his full height on the opposite end of the aisle, a cheery grin on his face.

“Pick up some beers, yeah? The three of us are coming round yours tonight and I’m gonna make dinner; text Harry the address for us. And open the door when we get there or I’ll break in, and I won’t help you put the door back on the hinges afterwards.”

The grin took on a tinge of mischief that said he’d actually do it and enjoy it, and probably spell the hinges not to reassemble for 12 hours or some nonsense. He gave a jaunty wave and walked off. 

Minutes later, Drake checked out and rushed back to his car, assuring the grocer he could manage the cases of sparkling water and beer on his own. He only had so much time to reinforce his door before spending the rest of the day with Harry. 

+

Harry left Hermione and Ron in the living room nursing the last of their after-dinner coffees, walked into the kitchen to toss his empty beer bottles, and found his host at the sink washing the last of the night’s dishes. Ron’d made a mean lasagna and Hermione had contributed a spring salad. The married pair had demanded to work alone, their own way of tangibly demonstrating their acceptance of Harry’s budding romance.

Not that it’d been required, or even sought out, but still. Harry appreciated it, and he especially appreciated the way it made the focus of his affections relax. He’d been tense all through their earlier smoothie meeting, and at the end when he’d shared his apprehensions for returning to England in a halting voice Harry had quickly realized the source of the blonde’s discomfort. And he’d perfectly understood the hesitance to return, with all of the traumas and potential triggers the Wizarding UK could hold.

His only response had been to wrap his arms around his partner’s waist, tell him his concerns made sense, and share his own experiences with a Mind Healer. Between that acquiescence and Hermione and Ron’s open acceptance, the involuntarily prodigal wizard had calmed down and then over gooey butter cake and coffee, he’d finally said aloud what they’d all known for weeks.

_“Pass the coffee over, Macaria”,_ Ron’d asked.

_“You can call me Draco.”_

He’d said it off-handedly even as he poured Ron a refill himself, like he hadn’t been running from who he was and all that meant from the very first moment he’d seen them in the café below Henley and Dodge. It made Harry feel warm inside, to know that Draco wasn’t too afraid to admit the truth anymore, to know he might’ve played a part in that. To know that he was playing a part in setting things right.

He walked up behind Draco, who was drying the dishes he’d washed while the sink drained of water and slipped his arms around his waist. He tucked his nose into the crease where the curve of Draco’s jaw met his neck and inhaled.

“Getting fresh with me in my own home, Potter?”

“Will you be my boyfriend?”

Draco tensed in his arms, but Harry wasn’t worried. It wasn’t like the frightened tension he’d been carrying when he was worried how they would take him not wanting to return to clean up the Ministry’s mess. It wasn’t Harry’s smoothest line because it wasn’t a line at all. It was already obvious to him that any relationship he and Draco managed to build would blow all his past forays into romance out of the water. There was too much history between them for coquettishness and coy play-words. They’d already seen each other at their very lowest, had already been manipulated by and lied to each other with catastrophic results; only raw truthfulness would work here.

“That’s a bit abrupt, don’t you think, Potter?”

“Maybe. But I trust you enough to just be honest with you. I like you. I’m not sure when Ron and Hermione and I will be returning to England, but I don’t want to leave with this undone.”

He felt Draco relax in his embrace, so he turned him around till they were face to face and then leaned in until their noses were touching. They were too close to see each other properly and Draco looked like he had one large gray eye; Harry didn’t care. This was integral to getting his point across.

“I’ve found a friend in you, and I’m never going to let that go. I also want to give this attraction between us a chance. Will you?”

“Yeah Harry, I will.”

If he was imagining that he could hear the grin in Draco’s voice when he responded, then he certainly felt that grin against his lips in the kiss that followed.

The kiss was short, nothing to be drawn out while people still sat in the other room most likely eavesdropping, but Harry still felt it all the way down to his toes. Their first kiss, and Draco had initiated it from the comfort of his own American kitchen.

“When we get back to England, I’ll owl you.’

“Texting is faster, Potter.”

“Handwritten letters are romantic though. Let me romance you, Draco.”

“If it’s wooing you’re after, then you’ll walk your fine ass to the post office and buy an international stamp and send that shit care of Royal Mail and USPS.”

He was laughing before he even finished talking, and Harry couldn’t help but laugh along with him.

“You’re rude as shit. It’s adorable.”

“Vulgarity isn’t adorable, Harry,” Draco laughed in delight, cheeks bright pink and face buried in Harry’s neck.

“It is when it’s you, though, because I adore you.”

“You’re such a fucking sap, Potter.”

“That’s what you’ve signed up for now. The sappiest of sap, all for you, live and in color, for the foreseeable future. Scared, Malfoy?”

“Not on your life, Potter. I look forward to being as good to you as you want me to be for as long as you’ll allow me.”

Draco sneered as he parroted Harry’s own words back to him, but the smirk was a fond and defanged imitation of the viciousness he’d wielded in his youth. Harry knew it was probably wishful thinking and exaggeration, but it almost looked like he could see the rest of his life tucked there in the corner of that sardonic twist of lips. Legitimate or not, it was way too soon to say anything of the sort aloud, so Harry contented himself with pressing another warm kiss to that mouth instead.

+

Sitting on Draco’s couch, Ron settled against the armrest and tugged at Hermione’s sleeve until she slid over to cuddle against him.

“So. I thought we intended to tell Ferret and Harry that as of noon today, local time, Croaker and Kingsley had officially– covertly– removed all record of Malfoy’s exile from the law books and he’s free to return whenever he likes?”

“No,” Hermione answered. “They only just managed to officially get together. We can wait a week. It’s only July, and we have until September to work out something for Hogwarts. It’s the Ministry’s own fault this situation arose; we can let the two of them milk it for a bit.”

Ron kissed her on the forehead.

“Yeah. Fuck the Ministry.”


	9. Atlas In His Sleepin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from Movement by Hozier

#

Draco walked into his apartment at 11pm without turning the lights on. He’d been out all day, first at work, and then at the Ultimate Frisbee end of season tournament, before going to the movies with Worth, Vic, and Tom who’d come back to visit. The day’d been long and made longer by the fact that he’d been up late the night before talking on the phone with his boyfriend.

Harry’d left with Ron and Hermione two weeks prior and in that time he’d received two letters and too many texts to count, sent two letters himself, and they’d had several hour long phone conversations. Worth and Ron didn’t know each other personally, but they were identical in their playful ribbing that the couple had gone through their honeymoon phase twice now, pre- and post- Official Ask Out. Vic and Hermione had never spoken, but they were identical in their adamance that when romance was intentional the so-called honeymoon phase never ended. Draco just really liked talking to Harry and felt giddy that the feeling was mutual.

None of that prepared Draco for walking into his living room to drop his keys into their usual glass bowl only for a strong Lumos to fill the room, exposing Headmistress McGonagall sitting in his La-Z-Boy recliner, posture ramrod straight and face weary. Maybe he should have let Granger-Weasley set him some wards. He pulled the wand that he’d begun carrying around again (as a favor to Harry, for his peace of mind) and cast a Revelio. Sure that she was the only other person in his apartment, he walked over to his side bar and poured himself two fingers of scotch. She shook her head in declination when he raised an eyebrow and cocked his head towards the bottle, so he threw his back and then settled into the couch.

“Why are you here, Headmistress?”

“Mrs. Granger-Weasley said you weren’t coming back to help remove the Dark Magic from the Room of Requirement.”

“I’m not.”

“I asked Professor Potter what had gone wrong, and for the first time in a long time, he refused to tell me more on the subject.” The Headmistress pinned Draco to his seat with a stare that made him feel all of 16 again. “It’s been a very long time since that boy thought he knew better than the other authority figures around him, especially regarding a mystery at Hogwarts. It isn’t pleasant, watching that stubborn set return to his face at this age.”

Draco never thought he’d smile through a McGonagall chastising, but the idea that for the first time he was one of the people that signature Potter mulishness was protecting made his cheeks grin and his face flush. He refused to look away from her stare, and she snorted at his impudence.

“Mr. Malfoy.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

She sighed.

“I was head of Gryffindor house. There were hundreds of students I looked after every year, and Slytherin that you were, you were never directly my responsibility. Except I was your teacher and an authority figure, and you were a child. You were in desperate need of an adult to balance the influence your father had on you from the moment you swaggered into the Great Hall for the hat to sort you, and your entire sixth year was like a constant non-stop scream for help.

We didn’t listen. I won’t say that if I had reached out to you things would’ve been different, but we’ll never know now because no one tried until it was far too late.”

That was not at all what Draco had been expecting her to say. The conversation could’ve gone in a million different directions, and he’d thought he’d prepared himself for the most likely of them while he was drinking.

“Headmistress McGonagall, I’m entirely responsible for all of the poor choices I made, and–”

She waved her hand, cutting him off.

“I’m not trying to remove your agency in your past, Mr. Malfoy, nor am I absolving you of the guilt I’m sure you’ve already owned and dealt with in your own manner. I’m not trying to dismiss the very real reasons you probably have for not returning.

I’m trying to own my own mistakes. I’m saying that I’m sorry for every adult that failed you, of which I am one. I’m sorry for locking all of your house in the basement during the final battle, for not allowing them to make their own choices and painting them all as villains at the same time. And I’m asking you to please.

Please think of the children currently preparing to come to Hogwarts in September and be the adult for them that you wish had been there for you.”

Somehow that was actually the most convincing thing Draco’d heard since the Golden Trio popped back up in his life. 

Lost in his own thoughts, he didn’t notice when McGonagall apparated out of his apartment. Two hours later found him in Phoenix, catching a last-minute red-eye direct to London. Jogging down the walkway that connected the terminal to the plane, he left a message with Henley and Dodge that he was sick and needed to take a few days, and a message in his group chat with Vic and Worth so they wouldn’t show up at his apartment with soup and then panic when he didn’t open the door.

It only took a strong Notice Me Not and three apparition jumps to get from Heathrow to Hogwarts. He waited at the gates to the school for 10 minutes under Scotland’s high noon sun, convinced he was being ridiculous and needed to just walk back to Hogsmeade and get a room at the Leaky, send a proper owl announcing his arrival and wait until the next day, when McGonagall rushed up to the gates from the other side and opened them with a wave of her wand.

“I’d hoped I’d get through to you, that you would come. I didn’t think you’d decide so fast, or I would have waited with the Portkey.”

He only shook his head and cleared his throat.

“How well is the Potions classroom stocked?” His voice sounded hoarse and cracked. He chose to believe it was from disuse and exhaustion and not fear.

McGonagall was gracious enough not to mention it either and hurried him towards the castle with assurances that he could find everything he needed inside.

Though the Headmistress couldn’t possibly know the verity of her words, Draco already knew them to be absolutely true. Of course, he could, because Harry was inside. And he was de-cursing the castle as much for him as for all the future students.

He moved as fast as possible, trying to outrun his exhaustion and all the memories he’d yet to deal with regarding the castle. Anyone staying in the castle for the summer was in the Great Hall eating lunch, and Draco wanted to be _gone_ before a single one of them wandered away from the meal.

“Mr. Malfoy, wait.”

The Headmistress stopped him on the sixth floor, at the foot of the moving stairs that led up into the seventh floor.

“The very nature of the Dark Magic that’s leaking out of the Room of Requirement – it perverts everything that comes near it. No spell works correctly near it, no text makes sense. If you want to do the arithmancy to fix the issue, you should do so down here.”

Draco nodded his understanding with a grimace. It wasn’t ideal; the closer he was to his target the more exact the Panafairό’s Box he would build would be. Nevertheless, this wasn’t a huge set back. He’d had to deal with similar circumstances for the rooms Voldemort had used most often in the Manor. It was still doable.

“Alright, Headmistress. I’ll need parchment, and a quill and ink please. I won’t know what potions ingredients I’ll need until the arithmancy is finished, but if you could go down to the dungeons and start setting out the usual things a Box uses, that would be a helpful start.”

McGonagall provided him his requested supplies and moved off at a respectable hustle to the dungeons, leaving Draco to get started. In the end, it really was a fairly simple adjustment on his previous method. The so-called secret he’d hidden from Edgemoore, that no one had been able to imitate had been inspired by Nicolas Flamel himself; he had to add an alchemic bit to the potion bit and then cast the resultant mixture over the hall leading up to the Room. And then over the door to the Room. And then he walked back and forth in front of the door three times, asking for the heart of the curse and cast the mixture through the air in the room that appeared too.

This curse was more active than all the curses in the Manor, because this curse was no curse at all. It was an entire War’s worth of malintent and evil, of oppression and anger left to fester. It was heartbreak. It was Crabbe’s death, and Draco’s own experiments with the Vanishing Cabinet and every spell that the Death Eaters who’d come through that cabinet had cast. It felt like he was being pressed under the weight of every Unforgivable cast on Hogwarts land, every jinx and hex he’d cast himself, of the sectumsempra that’d nearly ended his own life.

He forced the permuted potion even further into the Room, breaking curses and binding the spells into something harmless. He pushed as hard as could, because it was the very least he could do. Because it was the only way to save Hogwarts, and because under the weight of all that grief part of him felt like it was the only way to save his own soul. The moment the last of the curse dissipated felt a bit underwhelming, given how much it had taken out of Draco to bring it about and he knelt there in silence with his eyes closed while the Room put itself to rights around him. He just needed a second, just a fucking second to get some of his peace back.

When he finally opened his eyes and looked around, he saw that the haze of wrongness in the Room was all cleaned out. Once again it was the Come and Go Room where he’d spent so much time that one awful year. Draco knew he should go find McGonagall and tell her that he’d finished, but his feet seemed to have a life of their own. He made his way to what he instinctively knew was the corner Vince had stood in when he cast the Fiendfyre that had ended his own life and knelt down again.

“I… am so sorry. For not being a proper friend, Vince. For bringing you and Greg here chasing after Potter. For not bringing you back out.”

The tears came faster and harder until he’d cried himself out entirely. When he sat back on his haunches, there was a box of tissue sitting next to him, as if the castle forgave him for getting it invaded, in its own sentient building kind of way, and he found himself crying again. He accepted the tissues, and then walked over towards the door to the hall.

That was enough fucking reminiscing for him, thanks. He needed to get _out_ of the school as soon as possible.

When Draco stepped out of the door to the Room of Requirement, he found McGonagall there waiting for him with a warm, relieved smile on her face.

“Mr. Malfoy, you’ve broken the curse. I can feel the difference in the air here. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Of course, I’ll expect you might want to have some professional Curse Breakers come do a sweep for any ordinary cursed objects the school might’ve accumulated over the years, but the main issue here in the Room is finished.”

“Oh no,” she chuckled, “the entire Curse Breaking department at the Ministry uses your Panafairό’s Box these days. If it was going to be dealt with, your small explosion just now did so.

I’m sure you’d like to rest, and then head back home, but it would be remiss of me in my position as Headmistress to let you leave without at least inquiring– would you be interested in perhaps being our Potions Professor? Or our Charms Professor? Or our Arithmancy Professor or Alchemy Professor? All of the current Professors in these positions have mentioned retiring in the next few years. Or I could create a finance class for you to teach if you like.”

Draco had been incredulous but flattered when she started her pitch; by the end of it he felt his face on fire. In his childhood he’d took it as a matter of course that he’d be this sought after as an adult; with the actual years behind him he felt what a compliment it was that the Headmistress would solicit him to his face for such a variety of positions.

“That sounds lovely, Headmistress McGonagall, but I’m definitely not ready to be moving back to the Wizarding UK any time in the near future. In fact, I should be heading back to The States pretty soon; I only have so long off from work, you see. But, Headmistress? Where are Harry’s rooms? I’d like to leave him a gift before I go, since I don’t have time to see him.”

He tried to keep his expression innocent and family-friendly, but he could tell from the look she cut as she gestured to the hall housing Harry’s personal rooms that he failed. Just how much of the truth about the Trio’s trip to Arizona did she know?

He penned and left a letter in Harry’s rooms, and traded the cardigan he wore for one of Harry’s worn jumpers. He wanted the scent to accompany him home. After they’d all made nice back home in Arizona, Weasley had mentioned to him once that looking at Hermione helped him focus his thoughts, and he hoped the smell of Harry on the shirt could do the same for him. Something about McGonagall’s request that he work at Hogwarts had stuck in his brain, niggling at his mind, and he wanted the comfort of his boyfriend while he worked through it. By the time he was ready to go, Headmistress McGonagall had a portkey direct to his apartment waiting for him.

“Good-bye, Mr. Malfoy. I hope not so much time passes before we see each other again.”

Shockingly, it sounded like she genuinely meant that.

“Of course, Headmistress. Good-bye.”

He activated the teacup he was holding, and snapped back to his own living room, ready to sleep like the dead for at least two days, curled up in Harry’s much-too-large jumper.

+

“I can fully believe he came and went without lingering, and I can believe that the Headmistress would let it happen without informing me. I’m just bummed, is all. Draco was back in Scotland, in Hogwarts, _in my quarters_ , and I had no idea.”

Harry shook his head and stared directly into his beer mug. Ron stifled his laughter as he watched his friend battle his own maudlin instincts. It’d been a full week since Malfoy had come and gone without a word more than a short letter Harry still wouldn’t let him see, and the Ferret and Harry had communicated nearly non-stop via telephone ever since. Harry was still wearing the cardigan Malfoy’d left behind, never mind that it was way too narrow in the shoulders and the arms. New love, while sweet, was amusing for everyone not directly involved. The floo flared, and he looked across the dining room of the Hog’s Head Inn to see Hermione stepped through. He smiled at the sight of her, and then felt his expression drop as she stormed across the room to their table.

“Mione, love? What is it?”

Harry looked up in concern just as Hermione slapped a special evening edition of the Daily Prophet down on the table. Above the fold sat a picture of Edgemoore, looking sleazy as ever, while the headline across the top of the page proclaimed:

**_Breaking News! Potions Master and Curse-Breaker Extraordinaire Jonathon Edgemoore Admits to Being Mastermind Behind the Breaking of Secret Hogwarts’ Curse!!_ **

The byline belonged, of course, to none other than Rita Skeeter. The first paragraphed waxed on in the yellow journalism she was known for about how Edgemoore was the mind behind the Ministry’s earlier statement that an unnamed master potions and charms expert had removed the Dark Magic that no one realized was still in the school. Ron couldn’t read any further before Harry’s left pointer finger gave the air a small tap and the entire newspaper combusted into flames. The paper burned down to ash, and the three friends watched it with clenched jaws.

Ron stood, and kissed Hermione on the cheek.

“Love, please stay here and make sure Harry doesn’t do anything ridiculous.”

“And just where are you off too?” She held fast to his wrist in concern. Angry as she was, she didn’t want her husband running off to do ridiculous things either.

The grin he gave her was all Weasley fire and vengeance.

“To visit Luna at the Quibbler.”

Her own smile turned equally vindictive, and she let him go with a firm nod.

Three minutes later, Ron was sitting with Luna Lovegood, Pansy Parkinson, and Blaise Zabini. At some point Gregory Goyle showed up. None of them were surprised to hear that Draco was alive and well, as he’d sent them all letters as soon as his exile officially ended and the moratorium on his communications had been lifted.

Three hours later, when Ron finally finished explaining everything that’d taken place over the summer, all four of them were in complete shock and disarray, the earlier lack of surprise more than made up for. Ron stood up, sneered down at the copy of the Daily Prophet on the table with Malfoy-worthy disdain, and then looked each of them in the eye.

“You know the truth now. Leak the shite.”

He apparated back to his wife and best friend, confident that Draco’s cousin and his three closest friends from Slytherin would handle things adequately.

Adequately was an understatement. By morning, public opinion had turned against Edgemoore with the such fury he may as well have been Undesirable #1. May as well, if the public had any faith left in the Ministry’s system of categorizing criminals. Given the years the young Malfoy Lord had spent abroad, that faith was near non-existent. The fickle populace clamored for the return of their Slytherin Prince, and Ron did his best to hide his smug lack of surprise when Hermione informed him and Harry that Kingsley’d called Draco and offered to make him an official citizen of Britain again, and also invited him to do a press tour with the Ministry.

Neither Hermione or Ron were surprised that the information sent Harry scrabbling for his phone and then stepping outside to call his boyfriend and ask him what he wanted, so he could be as supportive as possible when someone inevitably came looking for the Chosen One’s two bits on the issue.

No one who knew Draco personally after the trials was surprised that he accepted his accolades with grace and firmly turned all the other offers down.

+

“Harry, I’ll always be grateful to you, Ron, and Hermione and Luna, Pansy, and Blaise that I’m not persona non grata anymore, but I never want to be a pawn again. I can’t come back to a Ministry that’s already raring to use me, not even if it is Kingsley whom you apparently adore.”

Harry rolled sideways in the massive bed in the Muggle hotel room he was staying in to avoid Skeeter, phone pressed to his ear and cord wrapped around his finger.

“I totally get that. Having people want to use you as a political tool just because you did the Right Thing eats arse. And not in a sexy, fun way. In a terrible, uncomfortable way.”

Draco snorted.

“Was that a segue, Potter? Do you have something else you’d rather be talking about right now?”

“It wasn’t! I’d never dismiss your feelings.”

“I know that,” Draco replied gently. “But I promise I’m fine. There’s not much venting I need to do about it, especially since I started seeing a Mind Healer like you suggested.”

Harry could hear him shifting in his seat on the line, the muffled sounds leading him into more a more expectant silence as he waited for Draco to continue.

“I’ve also been thinking a lot about being the kind of adult I needed when I was younger.”

“Oh yeah? What were you thinking about doing to that end?”

“Well…”

+  
A week after the doors of Hogwarts opened for the new school year, classes began at La Madrugada Wizarding School, and Draco stood up at the opening assembly to introduce himself as the new Interdisciplinary Professor, with specializations in charms, positions, and curses.


	10. Encore Lasts Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from Pluto Projector by Rex Orange County

#

“Don’t forget to journal tonight! Read one article in any of your declared study areas and then write an entry on if any part of what you learn could influence your individual projects, and if not write _why_ it is incompatible with your projects.”

Draco could barely hear himself over the sound of backpacks zipping up and desks being shoved around as his students used the last few seconds of class time before the bell to gather themselves. It didn’t matter overly much to him as their teacher- the assignment had been written on the board all class period and it was a weekly exercise given every Wednesday anyway. Interdisciplinary Studies was one of the least chosen electives and the students who took it were all very serious about their school work; none of them would forget it.

“See you all on Friday!”

The students hardly reacted to his valediction as they filed out. Draco collapsed down into his chair as the door banged shut behind the last student of his last 7th grade class of the day. He’d had two others prior and was meant to be heading to the cafeteria to eat and monitor second lunch. Afterwards he’d get his office hours, then a small break, and then his three 12th grade classes followed by a planning period and the end of the day. He was hardly tired with so little of the day behind him, but he still wanted the pause.

He was glad that none of his students seemed to have the passion he’d had during the project that was his claim to fame. That passion had been the direct result of desperation and a willful ignorance concerning the hopelessness of his future. Still, it stung a bit that in small classes with an average of 15 of the most dedicated and hard-working students possible he couldn’t inspire a laugh or even a smile.

One of many US wizardry schools, La Madrugada had living accommodations for out of state students, but most of the kids went home at night to their parents. They started when they turned 11, just like at Hogwarts, but they’d all attended non-magical primary school up through 5th grade before switching over to La Madrugada, which the state recognized officially as an elite private school. 

The students received two years of focused individualized study in the 7th grade and the 12th grade; an opportunity to see what interested them and give them space to test possible career paths, a chance for exploration and mistakes with the assurance of a school-sanctioned safety net. It was bewildering to Draco, then, that the children he taught were so dour, like only a Eureka moment would shake them out of the routine. Draco wanted his class, at least, to be somewhere they could make childish mistakes and try ridiculous things just to see if they could.

He locked up his classroom and followed the scent of spaghetti down the hall, his mind full of ridiculous Tri-Wizard Tournament badges and Weasley Wheezes being sold out of back stairwells. The cafeteria where was loud and full of bustle. He took his plate to the high table faculty used to look over the students. One or two eighth graders who’d had him the year before nodded in his direction, but it was far from the impact he’d intended to have. He ate uninterrupted and passed the rest of the period nursing a watery hot chocolate. 

The spaghetti had been delicious, but nowhere near the caliber of the Italian restaurant Draco’d visited with Vic and Worth the week prior. He sipped at the chocolate, already making plans to stop there for dinner _alone_. Or maybe, he’d take Greg when he came to visit. He hadn’t been able to savor the meal with all the disruptive conversation, which was his own fault if he was being honest. He’d whined at his two friends all through soup and salad over his plight in reaching his students, so maybe he had deserved the way they’d castigated him during the entree for not simply calling Harry. 

Asking his teacher boyfriend for teacher advice was the obvious and easiest choice and yet he couldn’t bring himself to. Draco knew no one would judge him for it, least of all Harry, but he hated the very idea of being one of those competent self-sufficient types who got into a relationship and then immediately relied on their significant other for every decision. Pondering his own irrationality, he left the caf and walked to his office on auto-pilot, only stopping when a hand landed heavily on his shoulder just outside his door.

“Mr. Malfoy! I’ve been calling you all down the hall.”

“Ah, Professor Shupla. Sorry about that, just a bit lost in my own thoughts.” He opened the door and gestured for his colleague to cross his threshold first. “Can I do something for you?”

Draco moved around to the other side of his desk and waited for her to sit before sitting himself.

“Actually, you can. You have a couple of free periods on Thursdays, yes?”

“Yes, third and sixth. Did you need me to run an errand for you, Professor Shupla?”

The older woman raised both eyebrows at him.

“Errands? Mr. Malfoy, you aren’t some classroom assistant we send out for coffee. You’re a teacher, a member of the staff whose skill I respect very much.” She continued bemusedly, “Would you mind terribly taking over my third period 10th grade Arithmancy class? I need to come in late to handle some personal business and that’s the only class I have to find coverage for as first period on Thursdays is my planning period and second period my 7th graders will be going over research methods and how to find things in the library with Mr. Torivio.”

Draco was shocked, and his voice held steady as he told her so.

“Professor Shupla-”

“Oh honestly, call me Roxanne. We’re equals here; I hope you won’t mind if I begin to call you Draco?”

“Of course not, Roxanne, but please. I’m familiar with Arithmancy as you well know but I’m no Master of the subject. I don’t really have any business teaching such a complex course at such a high level.”

Roxanne leaned forward, setting her forearms on the edge of Draco’s desk.

“Yes, about that. I understand that you wouldn’t want to start a Mastery in your various areas of interest given the time commitment and the tedium of repeating things you’ve already learned but why not enroll in La Madrugada’s Higher Education Program and then test to find the level you’re at? I’m sure in most of your subjects the exam will place you one or two assignments short of your Masters.

You’d get the titles you deserve, probably a raise, and maybe the confidence not to tell me that you can’t follow a pre-set lesson plan with a classroom of thirty-one 16-year-olds.”

Draco bowed his head, a bit sheepish at having been called out.

“What’s the real issue here, Draco? If you’re truly too busy to cover the class I can probably pull a substitute teacher; I just thought it would be better if the kids had a familiar face. They’re all still a bit skittish from last year’s end of semester standardized testing and already stressed out about next year’s college entrance exams.”

“It’s not so much that I don’t think I can follow your lesson plan. I’m just not feeling overly comfortable with my ability to relate to my InterDis students, and it makes me even more hesitant to work with other students on a more focused topic. They follow my lessons well and turn in good work, but they’re either only twelve and already worried about testing that’s still three years off or seventeen to eighteen and find my class a respite from all their other college prep classes. 

Everything is about learning, regurgitating for an exam, and then moving on, and in a class as unrelated to testing as mine it’s easy to feel the lack of investment. InterDis is a great elective to have for college applications but beyond that I don’t think I inspire them.”

Roxanne heaved a sigh as she stood so Draco had to look up to maintain eye contact. When she caught his gaze, she smiled.

“Maybe if you’re studying for a big test or six along with them the parallels would be easier to draw, and the connections would be more easily made. Regardless of what you decide, I’ve seen the materials you submitted when you applied to teach here including your OWLs, NEWTs, and personal research. I’m quite confidant in your capability to run my class and would greatly appreciate the assistance.”

Draco stood, smiling and excited to have some potential direction for reaching his students. He held out his hand and gave Roxanne a firm shake.

“It would be my pleasure, Professor Shupla. Just leave the lesson plans in my mailbox this afternoon.”

Draco stared at his shut door long after Roxanne left his office, heart pounding. He wouldn’t be enrolling in anything this quarter, but if he spent the next quarter studying, he could take the High Ed entrance exams in time to be sorted for the Spring semester. He could use the rest of his office hours to brush up on his Arithmancy basics for the exam and Professor Shupla’s class the next day. Mind racing a mile a minute, he couldn’t seem to get started because he was too busy thinking of ways to get started. A knock at his door startled him into action.

“Mr. Malfoy? It’s Lex- I mentioned I might come by? With the potions questions?”

Draco sat back down and tidied his desk before calling for the 9th grader to come in. He might not be having the profound effect he wanted to yet, but now there was a plan. And in the meantime, one of the handful of students who’d latched on to him needed assistance. Large or small, he was making a difference and getting closer to his coworkers, and things would only get better from there.

+

“Well, Professor Malfoy.” Principal Corinthos stood and leaned across his desk to shake Draco’s hand before handing over the heavy sealed envelope. “It has certainly been a pleasure to work with you these past three years. We have literally never had a better or more qualified Interdisciplinary Studies Professor, and we’ll be calling on your expertise even from this corner of The States once you move back to Scotland.”

“Please, Principal. You’ve only just given me a recommendation letter; I haven’t applied anywhere else so far. You might not be rid of me for a while yet.”

“Ha!” The man boomed. “Modesty is good, Draco, but only when it’s genuine. You know as well as I do that as soon as Headmistress McGonagall sees your application to teach at Hogwarts, she’ll accept so fast it’ll give Albus Dumbledore’s portrait whiplash.”

Draco inclined his head in acknowledgment, and to hide his smug laughter. He’d miss Corinthos once he’d gone. Just like he’d miss Victoria and Worth. They’d all just have to try extra hard to keep in touch. Still, he couldn’t regret his decision. He was finally ready to move back home, ready to be done with long-distance bit of his relationship. It was time.


End file.
